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پست‌های کانال
That’s why I’m not scared of anyone Cause nothing’s gonna last forever But you need to discover that feeling Of the crushing highs and lows of ego Where one minute you know you’re the worst And the next minute you know you’re better Than everyone in the room But know that nothing’s gonna last forever
| 2 | Eleftherios - Poison Tree (Ambient Rework).mp3 | 1 |
| 3 |  +1The Garden of Earthly Delights Hieronymus van Aken aks Bosch c.1490-1500
Culture Critic | 151 |
| 4 | +1 Wedard - Leidenschaft.mp3 | 177 |
| 5 | پیوی | 1 |
| 6 | موزیک بفرستین | 1 |
| 7 | +4 JANVS – Quis tantus furor.mp3 | 295 |
| 8 | چوب سادگی رفت توم | 1 |
| 9 | چوب سادگی رو نخوردم | 1 |
| 10 | Thom Yorke - Suspirium.mp3 | 215 |
| 11 |  بدون متن... | 92 |
| 12 | +4 01. Saor - Amidst the Ruins.mp3 | 175 |
| 13 | sticker.webp | 22 |
| 14 | عاشق چنلتم | 22 |
| 15 | چشه هوی | 22 |
| 16 | چنلو | 24 |
| 17 | +5 01. Drudkh - Nav' (Навь).flac | 207 |
| 18 |  Librairie Romantique (1887)
Eugène Grasset (French, 1841-1917) | 199 |
| 19 | +3 qJWMTh7mhQrTVMwgAxfmX-sJNiVyBDo.m4a | 242 |
| 20 | At times I feel as though my existence has become a realm of contradictory personalities each refusing to acknowledge the others, each striving to reign over the entirety of my being. Yet the truth is, I no longer know whether I should despise this chaos or take pleasure in it. Perhaps I have even grown attached to this fragmentation, to the thought that no one will ever be able to confidently claim that they have truly known me.
At every hour of the day, I choose a different face. Sometimes, I become so cold and indifferent that it seems as though not a single emotion remains alive within me. At other times, I behave so differently that even those closest to me begin to question whether they know me at all. Strangely enough, I derive a secret pleasure from watching their confusion. How utterly ridiculous are those who, having witnessed merely one of my faces, believe they have uncovered the truth of my existence.
I despise society; not merely for its judgments, but for the sheer audacity of those who expect you to lay bare the entirety of your being before them, while lacking even the capacity to comprehend or accept the smallest fragment of it.
This world has taught me that honesty is not always a virtue. Sometimes, honesty is nothing more than an opportunity you place in the hands of others, allowing them to turn the truth of your existence into a weapon against you. And so I learned how to conceal the truth, how to change faces, and how to reveal to each person only that part of myself which they are capable of understanding.
Perhaps there was a time when these contradictions tormented me, but now I find within them a peculiar kind of power. The power to become a different stranger to every person I encounter; to leave them suspended in uncertainty, wondering which of my words have emerged from the depths of my soul and which of my actions are nothing more than performances meticulously chosen for their eyes.
Sometimes, even I lose the boundary between truth and pretense. I no longer know which of these personalities is the most authentic, nor do I particularly desire to choose one over another. Perhaps my truth resides in none of them individually, but rather in the entirety of these irreconcilable contradictions.
I am a collection of faces that sometimes deny one another, and what a strange, exquisite pleasure it is to watch people attempting to understand someone who appears before them as an entirely different person each time.
Let them construct whatever image of me they wish within their minds. Let them believe me to be kind, cruel, innocent, selfish, honest, or deceitful. These perceptions, rather than revealing the truth of my existence, merely expose the limitations of their own understanding and perception.
And perhaps the most corrupted part of my being is that I no longer feel particularly inclined to correct their misconceptions. Sometimes, I prefer to leave them imprisoned within the comfortable illusion of knowing me, while I, from behind my masks, silently observe the absurdity of their hollow certainty.
And yet, a question still wanders through the darkest corners of my mind
Have I created these masks to protect the truth of my existence, or have I grown so accustomed to playing different roles that there is no longer any independent truth of myself remaining beneath them?
And does it even matter?
When most people are incapable of comprehending even the most superficial layers of another human being, why should I so eagerly surrender the depths of my soul to them?
Who ever decided that merely desiring to know me makes someone worthy of knowing me? | 141 |
