all of us already carry this experience within us. at some point, each of us has said through tears:"i am suffering because of a love that is unworthy." we suffer because we feel that we give more than we receive. we suffer because our love is not accepted. we suffer because we cannot impose our own rules and expcetations. yet in the end, we suffer for no truly justified reason, because every love already contains within it the seed of our own growth. the more deeply and passionately we love, the closer we come to experiencing the soul. those who are truly enlighted, whose souls have been illuminated by love, are able to overcome all the barriers and constraints of their age. they can sing, laugh and raise their prayers; they can dance and share what Saint Paul called "holy madness." they are filled with joy, for those who are in love conquerthe world and do not fear failure. true love is anact of complete self-giving.
it turns out that some sorrows do not cry out loudly, nor do they appear in tears or lamentations. it turns out that everyone carries abysses within their heart, so that even if they wake up and smile every day, their soul may have already leapt into those hidden chasms deep inside, long before anyone notices.
i wish i could be somebody's bestfriend.i wish i could be seen and recognized for everything i did. i wish i were matter to someone. i've been feeling so invisible for everything i did.
how can i keep living if life always take good things away from me? and whoever read this, sorry if you feel like you don't have enough affection or care from me, i do care a lot, i was just protecting myself from getting too attached.
I love people more than i love myself.
There is a deeply unhinged undercurrent festering within the modern black metal community, and it is time to call it exactly what is it: pathetic. Specifically, within the online circles surrounding Mayhem, a wave of delusional fans has managed to take real-life, serious mental illness and reduce it to a sanitized, romanticized aesthetic. Watching people over-romanticized a tragic figure who died decades ago from severe depression, treating severe, life ending trauma as if it were a cheap fantasy book, is nothing short of disgusting. Let's get one thing straight, this is not a mutual understanding. Obessing over a dead musician's misery will not cure your loneliness, nor it will make you feel misunderstood. He would not care about you, and projecting your own unresolved issues onto his genuine traume is a toxic coping mechanism that only worsen your own mental state. Black metal was never meant to be a safe place for cringe, parasocial delusions. Usinga scene built on harsh reality to feed an internet-spawned obsession with tradegy is not edgy; it's a desperate cry for psychiatric help. If you find yourself writing love stories about historical suicide and severe mental illness, the solution is not to look deeper into the music, it is to log off, stop embarrassing yourself, find the professional help you clearly need. Turn off the internet, find something worth invested in, and leave the history alone.
For my entire life, I have craved validation and the feeling of being truly understood. But because of my quietness, I have always been dismissed and misunderstood. The closest people I had were my parents when I was a child. I loved dinosaurs and monsters; I used to draw constantly and proudly show them my artwork. They would give me a generic compliment before returning to work. It still happens even now — when I sing a perfect high note, write something beautiful, or play the guitar. To them, these things are nothing special, just meaningless hobbies and a waste of time. The only achievements that seem to matter are high scores at school or success in things society considers important. Even as a child, I remember writing a small book and showing it to my friends, but no one seemed to care. During break time at school, I was always the lonely kid sitting alone, drawing monsters and writing stories while everyone else played together. Things at home were not much better. My grandfather was aggressive and angry all the time, and I was still so young. I remember one day after he had finished cleaning the floor, I accidentally stepped on it without knowing. He became furious — cursing at me harshly and throwing things around the house. I was terrified and hid in my room. Back then, my grandmother was the only person I felt I could rely on. My parents were always busy because we were poor and constantly struggling, and my grandfather treated us unfairly. I truly loved my grandmother. But as I grew older, I began to see the truth in people. She was not as kind as I once believed. She had her own ways of hurting others, subtle but real. Over time, I lost many friends. One person I considered my best friend moved to the United States and slowly ghosted me, even while I kept trying to reach out to her. I still remember another friend I once had — we were both introverted, skinny, and often sick, so we naturally understood each other. But poverty forced her to drop out of school, and once again, I was left alone. I was also born with a weaker respiratory system. Hospitals felt like a second home during my childhood. My father has asthma, and I inherited similar problems. It is less severe now, but I still get tired easily, struggle slightly to breathe, and people often misunderstand me as lazy or slow. As I grew older, I became more and more insecure. Nothing I ever do feels enough. I live in a constant state of self-blame and regret over the past. And again, I know most people would probably look at my situation and think, “It’s not that serious.” Sometimes, I even tell myself the same thing. But my mind and body react as if it is serious, and that alone proves that the pain is real. I am an extremely sensitive person. Almost everything in this world affects me on a soul-deep level. I care so deeply that it physically hurts sometimes. And because of that, I live with an intense fear of being misunderstood as cold, distant, or uncaring, when in reality, I am simply terrified of closeness and the possibility of losing people. I have never truly had friends, not even in childhood. So whenever someone enters my life, I cherish them deeply. I become attached to every small moment of connection. But beneath all of that love and care is constant fear — the fear of uncertainty, abandonment, and loss. Those fears often become stronger than my ability to enjoy the relationship itself. Sometimes I feel guilty for being this miserable at all. There are people suffering far more than me — people who are homeless, starving, or living with unbearable physical pain. Compared to the life I had years ago, my life now is much more stable. I have a home. Things are not as financially difficult as before. And yet, I still feel lonely. I still feel hurt in ways I cannot explain because I have never truly felt understood by anyone. People would probably call me ungrateful for feeling this way while not being poor enough or miserable enough by society’s standards. But emotional suffering does not disappear simply because someone else has it worse. The worst point came a year ago during a serious conflict with my mother. She wanted to “fix” me because I had become deeply depressed, but instead of understanding me, she kept dismissing my feelings and telling me to think more positively. I was scolded repeatedly until I became so overwhelmed and hopeless that I started banging my head against the wall. Only then did the room finally fall silent for a moment. That night, I wanted to kill myself. But I couldn’t do it because I still lived with my family. Later, I wrote my mother a long letter explaining mental health, ADHD, and everything I had been struggling with inside. She told me she had read it, but nothing changed. She still said I simply needed to try harder, that everyone suffers, and that some people suffer far more than I do. From that moment on, I realized that I no longer truly had anyone.
I’ve always been afraid that if I cared too much, I would unintentionally bother people. I’m afraid they won’t understand me, or worse, that they’ll take my feelings for granted. There are so many things I want to say, yet I can never seem to put them into words. Maybe that’s why I lost people I once loved, not because I didn’t care, but because I was too much of a coward to express it. I constantly live in the past, drowning in regret over the things I did and the things I failed to do. Sometimes, when I feel angry or bitter, I tell myself that I don’t care anymore. But most nights, I find myself in agony over the past - the mistakes I made, the chances I lost, the misunderstandings, my cowardice, my ADHD, and my depression. I know people would probably call me dramatic. They’d say that making mistakes is normal because we’re human, or that I’m still too young to carry this much grief. But I swear I’ve felt this way since the beginning of my teenage years, when my mind first became truly aware of life. Being too aware, and feeling too much empathy, has brought me immense suffering.
God, why was I born? My life has been filled with nothing but pain and loneliness. Not once have I ever known true peace within myself. I have lived in a personal hell, watching everything I cherished and everyone I loved slowly leave me behind. I loved too deeply and cared too much, until I lost myself completely. I tried so hard, yet I was never enough. It is my own sensitivity, my stupidity, my cowardice,.. whatever remains of this thing that no longer feels human that ruined my life. Every night, I beg for release. I cry out to the God of Heaven, asking Him to take me away, to tear apart the last fragments of this unwanted resilience and free me from this earthly hell. Yet my prayers are met only with silence, as though this suffering is some punishment I was destined to endure. I am in so much pain that even my tears dried up long ago. There is nothing left for me to hold onto. Only this stubborn resilience keeps me here. And if that disappears too, then you will know there is nothing left to stop me, nothing left that could convince me to stay, because I have already made peace with Death.
When I look into the mirror, I see the corpse of a child long dead. The person staring back at me feels unfamiliar, like a stranger wearing my face. There is nothing left except regret and a longing for something I was never given. Life slipped through my hands like a passing shadow, yet the pain still lingers within. When I look back on the past, I find no genuine happiness, nothing that resembles the warmth a human being deserves. I see only a soul alone with its thoughts, condemned to a lifetime of solitude.
this site was born from deepest hell