I fall in love. I feel alive, inspired, even invincible. But what if that feeling isn’t real? What if it’s an illusion, not crafted by any one person, but by nature itself, designed to make me a slave? I’ve come to see romance not as a beautiful thing, but as a trap. And at the center of that trap is woman, not as an individual, but as an embodiment of something larger. This isn’t a tale of heartbreak. It’s a story of metaphysical betrayal.
I no longer believe women want love or truth. What they want, though not consciously, not cruelly, is for me to suffer. Because they are the perfect vessels through which nature enacts its will. Their charm, their warmth, their affection, all of it is a mask worn by something primal. A force that keeps me locked in the endless cycle of desire, reproduction, and pain. They aren’t seeking connection. They are instruments of life's continuation. Tools nature uses to drag me back into the chaos I desperately try to escape. And the more I love, the deeper I sink, my freedom gone, my clarity clouded, my soul mortgaged to a lie.
This isn’t a gentle theory. It’s a brutal realization that turns everything I thought I knew about love on its head. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Because women aren't salvation. They’re the bait. And love? It’s the first cut in a wound that never truly heals. In this world, suffering wears a smile. Desire is the most elegant form of enslavement. I don’t believe in romance anymore. Or in happy endings. I believe in pain. Life isn't a gift. It’s a sentence. And I am no hero, just a prisoner driven by something I can't even name. A will that is blind, insatiable, and cruel. It doesn’t care about my dreams or peace. It wants only this: for me to keep desiring, even if it destroys me.
That’s the stage I now see: I am born, I want, I suffer. If I’m lucky, I die before it drags on too long. Every pleasure is just a pause between agonies. And nowhere is the illusion more dangerous than in love. Love doesn’t uplift. It deceives. It feels transcendent, poetic, even divine. But that’s the disguise. Behind the softness is something raw, mechanical, and merciless. Nature doesn’t care if I’m happy. It just wants to keep going. And it will lie to me to get what it wants.
In this shit existence, women play central roles. Not villains, but vessels, you can call them villains, but yeah, whatever. They don’t choose to deceive. They are the deception. Nature uses them to trap me through beauty, affection, and the false promise of meaning, but deep down there is no meaning in life. What I thought was connection is actually a sentence. The moment I believed I found love, I had simply auditioned for the lead in a tragedy. And when the curtain rose, there wasn’t applause, only the sound of chains locking behind me.
Women don’t rule through strength. They rule through the illusion of needing protection. Not warriors, but masters of emotional leverage, masters of manipulation. Their power doesn’t come from force, but from tears, silence, and softness. Not signs of innocence, but tactics. Evolutionary weapons sharper than blades.
And the worst part? I don’t even notice. I call it compassion. I call it love. But beneath the emotion is submission, not to a person, but to a pattern. I think I’m sacrificing out of nobility, but I’m really folding under instinct. What starts as empathy becomes erosion. My boundaries dissolve. My ideals bend. And I convince myself I’m noble for enduring it. But the outcome is always the same: loss. Not just of power, but of clarity. I no longer know where she ends and I begin. I become a man molded by guilt, shaped by obligation. This isn’t a flaw in them. It’s a feature, brilliant, unconscious, and devastating. Influence without force. Domination dressed as love.
Beneath the poetry of romance, I see a battlefield. Not of swords, but of strategy. Seduction instead of violence. Expectation instead of force. A man seeks purpose, legacy, freedom. A woman seeks security, continuity, and control over that freedom. That’s not malice. That’s design. The will that drives us both ensures we are always out of sync. I am drawn to the illusion of completeness. She offers that illusion, but never gives up control of it. Every kiss is a negotiation. Every promise, a transaction. I think I’m building love, but I’m being reshaped, softened, hollowed out. The world is designed to break you with beauty.
Now, I'm empty, and I know the trap of falling in love very well.
It's OVER.
I no longer believe women want love or truth. What they want, though not consciously, not cruelly, is for me to suffer. Because they are the perfect vessels through which nature enacts its will. Their charm, their warmth, their affection, all of it is a mask worn by something primal. A force that keeps me locked in the endless cycle of desire, reproduction, and pain. They aren’t seeking connection. They are instruments of life's continuation. Tools nature uses to drag me back into the chaos I desperately try to escape. And the more I love, the deeper I sink, my freedom gone, my clarity clouded, my soul mortgaged to a lie.
This isn’t a gentle theory. It’s a brutal realization that turns everything I thought I knew about love on its head. Once I saw it, I couldn’t unsee it. Because women aren't salvation. They’re the bait. And love? It’s the first cut in a wound that never truly heals. In this world, suffering wears a smile. Desire is the most elegant form of enslavement. I don’t believe in romance anymore. Or in happy endings. I believe in pain. Life isn't a gift. It’s a sentence. And I am no hero, just a prisoner driven by something I can't even name. A will that is blind, insatiable, and cruel. It doesn’t care about my dreams or peace. It wants only this: for me to keep desiring, even if it destroys me.
That’s the stage I now see: I am born, I want, I suffer. If I’m lucky, I die before it drags on too long. Every pleasure is just a pause between agonies. And nowhere is the illusion more dangerous than in love. Love doesn’t uplift. It deceives. It feels transcendent, poetic, even divine. But that’s the disguise. Behind the softness is something raw, mechanical, and merciless. Nature doesn’t care if I’m happy. It just wants to keep going. And it will lie to me to get what it wants.
In this shit existence, women play central roles. Not villains, but vessels, you can call them villains, but yeah, whatever. They don’t choose to deceive. They are the deception. Nature uses them to trap me through beauty, affection, and the false promise of meaning, but deep down there is no meaning in life. What I thought was connection is actually a sentence. The moment I believed I found love, I had simply auditioned for the lead in a tragedy. And when the curtain rose, there wasn’t applause, only the sound of chains locking behind me.
Women don’t rule through strength. They rule through the illusion of needing protection. Not warriors, but masters of emotional leverage, masters of manipulation. Their power doesn’t come from force, but from tears, silence, and softness. Not signs of innocence, but tactics. Evolutionary weapons sharper than blades.
And the worst part? I don’t even notice. I call it compassion. I call it love. But beneath the emotion is submission, not to a person, but to a pattern. I think I’m sacrificing out of nobility, but I’m really folding under instinct. What starts as empathy becomes erosion. My boundaries dissolve. My ideals bend. And I convince myself I’m noble for enduring it. But the outcome is always the same: loss. Not just of power, but of clarity. I no longer know where she ends and I begin. I become a man molded by guilt, shaped by obligation. This isn’t a flaw in them. It’s a feature, brilliant, unconscious, and devastating. Influence without force. Domination dressed as love.
Beneath the poetry of romance, I see a battlefield. Not of swords, but of strategy. Seduction instead of violence. Expectation instead of force. A man seeks purpose, legacy, freedom. A woman seeks security, continuity, and control over that freedom. That’s not malice. That’s design. The will that drives us both ensures we are always out of sync. I am drawn to the illusion of completeness. She offers that illusion, but never gives up control of it. Every kiss is a negotiation. Every promise, a transaction. I think I’m building love, but I’m being reshaped, softened, hollowed out. The world is designed to break you with beauty.
Now, I'm empty, and I know the trap of falling in love very well.
It's OVER.
Good writing. Very well written.
