Anonymous
10/11/2025, 3:52:15 PM
No.24791570
"A Confession of the True Beast – or, The Mockery of My Soul's Torment"
Yes! Yes, I confess! Not to the deed itself, oh no, for the blade of the truth, that sharpest of instruments, has yet to find its mark in the quivering flesh of my damned soul. But to a greater sin, a more profound, a more... Karamazovian lie! For all those righteous fools who saw my torment, my writhing, my incoherent cries – they saw a performance! Oh, a masterful one, I grant you! A devilishly clever ballet of the fractured mind!
They spoke of madness, of a soul undone by passion, by alcohol, by the ancient, cursed blood that flows like fevered fire in these veins! They called it... schizophrenia! A grand, medical name for the simple, calculating truth of a man cornered like a rat in his own inferno. And I was stuck in the circle of Lust! Lust, lust, lust!
And I, Dmitri Karamazov, I played the part with every fiber of my being, with every tortured gasp! My racing thoughts? Ha! They raced, yes, but not to the void of unreason, but to the cunning calculation of escape! How to weave a tapestry of delusion so convincing that the very air around me would shriek with the echoes of my supposed madness? How to conjure voices from the ether, not from hell, but from the depths of my own theatrical depravity?
The incoherence? A mask, my friends, a brilliant, shimmering mask over the lucid, terrible truth! I stumbled over words, not because my thoughts were broken, but because I was sculpting the impression of a shattered mind! Each stammer, each sudden leap from celestial visions to earthly mud, was a stroke of the brush, painting the portrait of a man unhinged, a man beyond the comprehension of your paltry laws!
And the delusions! Oh, the grand, glorious delusions! Of devils, of angels, of my tormented conscience wrestling with God Himself! They saw it as the blossoming of a sick mind, did they not? But I saw it as a shield, a colossal, shimmering shield woven from the very fabric of despair, to hide the cold, hard, calculating core of my horrid desire!
For what was the crime, you ask? A terrible, unspeakable thing, yes! Born not of a momentary madness, but of a deep, festering hunger! A desire so raw, so primal, so... Karamazovian that it threatened to devour my very being! And to escape its just recompense, to avoid the axe of the law for the axe of my own terrible longing, I chose this path! The path of the madman! The path of the pitiable, shattered soul!
So, let them pity me! Let them send me to their hospitals, their asylums, their quiet places of despair! For in their misguided compassion, in their belief in my illness, I have found my true freedom! Not the freedom of the innocent, but the freedom of the utterly, truly damned! For the crime was not the act, but the cold, calculating fraud of my feigned madness!
Yes! Yes, I confess! Not to the deed itself, oh no, for the blade of the truth, that sharpest of instruments, has yet to find its mark in the quivering flesh of my damned soul. But to a greater sin, a more profound, a more... Karamazovian lie! For all those righteous fools who saw my torment, my writhing, my incoherent cries – they saw a performance! Oh, a masterful one, I grant you! A devilishly clever ballet of the fractured mind!
They spoke of madness, of a soul undone by passion, by alcohol, by the ancient, cursed blood that flows like fevered fire in these veins! They called it... schizophrenia! A grand, medical name for the simple, calculating truth of a man cornered like a rat in his own inferno. And I was stuck in the circle of Lust! Lust, lust, lust!
And I, Dmitri Karamazov, I played the part with every fiber of my being, with every tortured gasp! My racing thoughts? Ha! They raced, yes, but not to the void of unreason, but to the cunning calculation of escape! How to weave a tapestry of delusion so convincing that the very air around me would shriek with the echoes of my supposed madness? How to conjure voices from the ether, not from hell, but from the depths of my own theatrical depravity?
The incoherence? A mask, my friends, a brilliant, shimmering mask over the lucid, terrible truth! I stumbled over words, not because my thoughts were broken, but because I was sculpting the impression of a shattered mind! Each stammer, each sudden leap from celestial visions to earthly mud, was a stroke of the brush, painting the portrait of a man unhinged, a man beyond the comprehension of your paltry laws!
And the delusions! Oh, the grand, glorious delusions! Of devils, of angels, of my tormented conscience wrestling with God Himself! They saw it as the blossoming of a sick mind, did they not? But I saw it as a shield, a colossal, shimmering shield woven from the very fabric of despair, to hide the cold, hard, calculating core of my horrid desire!
For what was the crime, you ask? A terrible, unspeakable thing, yes! Born not of a momentary madness, but of a deep, festering hunger! A desire so raw, so primal, so... Karamazovian that it threatened to devour my very being! And to escape its just recompense, to avoid the axe of the law for the axe of my own terrible longing, I chose this path! The path of the madman! The path of the pitiable, shattered soul!
So, let them pity me! Let them send me to their hospitals, their asylums, their quiet places of despair! For in their misguided compassion, in their belief in my illness, I have found my true freedom! Not the freedom of the innocent, but the freedom of the utterly, truly damned! For the crime was not the act, but the cold, calculating fraud of my feigned madness!