When the lights are off and the world is silent,
when no one’s watching, judging, scrolling, or liking
that’s when I come alive.

I’m not a performer then.
Not a role. Not a resume.
I’m just… the raw version of myself unfiltered, unedited, and fully awake.

I am a reader of everything.

Not just the noble or the wise.
I read like I breathe compulsively, constantly.

Fiction, psychology, erotica, mythology, dirty stories, user manuals, manga, AI ethics, old forums, ancient scriptures, code architecture it doesn’t matter.

If it exists, it deserves to be understood.
If it stimulates, it deserves to be explored.

Some people read to escape.
I read to expand.

Every page I consume is a doorway
into minds I’ve never lived in,
into darkness I won’t admit I like,
into truths that make me flinch and smile at the same time.

My curiosity is not innocent.
It’s sacred. And dangerous. And alive.

I am a writer of everything.

Not just the profound or poetic.
I write like I bleed involuntarily, obsessively.
Sometimes in perfect metaphors.
Sometimes in half-sentences that make no sense to anyone but me.

Journals, rants, intrusive thoughts, texts I’ll never send,
angry paragraphs in the notes app,
soft lines written after midnight,
weird thoughts like “What if time is just memory’s shadow?”

it doesn’t matter.

If it itches the mind, I scratch it in words.
If it stabs the soul, I stitch it with sentences.

Some people write to impress.
I write to disarm myself.

I build ideas in silence. I sketch systems no one sees.

When the world is asleep, I sit with logic like it’s jazz.
I practice software design not because I have to,
but because my mind craves structure like lungs crave air.

Others play games to escape reality.
I build frameworks to explain it.

No one sees the diagrams in my head.
No one sees the silent problems I solve for fun.
But I do.
And that’s enough.

Because when I code, when I craft, when I optimize an idea

I’m not trying to impress.
I’m trying to become precise.

This is my mental dojo.

My addictions are not flaws. They’re fingerprints.

Yes, I consume too much.
Yes, I go down rabbit holes too deep.
Yes, I love things I’d never confess in public.
But so what?

I don’t want a tidy mind.
I want a mind that feels everything, grabs everything, learns everything, questions everything.

Because I’m not here to play it safe.
I’m here to be complete.

Even the messy parts.
Even the lust.
Even the obsession.
Even the loneliness.

I doubt myself deeply.

But never stops.

When no one is watching, i am not proud.
i am conflicted. i ask myself:

• “What is the right thing to do?”
• “What if I’m wrong?”
• “What if strength without purpose is just violence in disguise?”

i study my own mind like a philosopher,
asks uncomfortable questions,
and doesn’t rush to answers.

i am the kind of man who wins everything and still wonders if i did the right thing.

So who am I, when no one is watching?

I am the unfinished draft.
The code no one sees.
The book devoured in secret.
The shadow thinker.
The wandering soul who reads filth and philosophy with the same hungry eyes.

• i am craftsman of conscience
• i am trying to stay whole in a broken world
• i am disciplined flame not wild, but unwavering

i am not perfect.
But i am honest. radically honest.

And that is my true power.

I am not one thing.
I am the one who dares to want everything.