In the silence of darkness, I love watching them. I can almost feel their hearts pumping blood, every beat echoing like waves crashing against the rocks. That powerful pulse, the rush of crimson flooding through their veins—it's intoxicating. The pleasure of it, the thrill that sends shivers down my spine, the way my eyes gleam with anticipation. Watching them from the shadows, hidden in the abyss of the night—this is just a fragment of my ecstasy.
Meditation is essential to restrain myself each day. My body relaxes, my mind empties, and my conscience... feels at peace. I take pleasure in hunting the arrogant souls that roam the city, making them feel fear seep into their very bones. I feed on fear. But no matter how much I consume, the next day, I crave more. Meditation and water—both are crucial.
I love watching people. Sometimes, I find a quiet place—a park, for example. I sit there, observing them, studying the way they talk, the way they laugh. Even when I don't understand them, I enjoy watching. Sometimes, I focus on couples. They seem out of sync, as if love is nothing more than a hollow performance. As if they're merely wasting time, waiting for someone else—someone who never came. The man looks at the woman, but the woman... she looks beyond him. Maybe, just maybe, I'm right.
This isn't just about women—men are no different. Once they have what they desired, they start looking for new conquests. Perhaps men were hunters from the beginning, bringing home food after the chase. But this isn't about survival. There is no need for new prey.
I remember… I never truly trusted them, yet I had many women around me. They would confide in me, find comfort in me, sometimes even cry in my presence. It weighed on me. I never wanted to hear their miseries, but I couldn't turn them away either. They spoke of their betrayals, of their love given in vain, and I told them exactly what they wanted to hear. Because that's what people crave—to be told they are right. They need validation, even when they are wrong. And when I fed them these lies, it was as if I had handed them a victory. Like gladiators who had conquered the arena, standing alone, savoring their survival.
Maybe I seem cruel. Maybe, if someone knew the truth, they would call me a demon. "You're the devil himself," they would say. But I wouldn't care. I don't care anymore.
Maybe the greatest lie of all… is me. A magnificent lord, detached from reality, lost within his own world. But who decides what is a lie and what is real? What is reality, truly? Are the things we see real? Is there only one reality, or are there many?