NARCISISM AND POWER

But why does the narcissist seek power? Because it is fragile, because its feet are made of clay. Alongside the grandiose image that he exhibits outside, coexists the image from which he desperately tries to escape: that of being a nullity, without any value. The narcissist fears judgment and fears criticism, even constructive, because it calls him back to reality. But reality, for him, behind the grandiose mask, is emptiness, the nullity of feelings, insignificance. The narcissist is afraid to reveal himself, because deep down he feels unacceptable. If the negative image rises to the surface, he feels lost. Pain and a sense of humiliation resurfaces: he feels weak, exposed, afraid.
The narcissist despises the feelings of others because he despises his own feelings, the authentic ones, those feelings that lead him to recontact the original pain and depression. He detached himself from those feelings, choosing the schizoid path of alienation and covering them through anger.
If we look at the surface, we see the narcissist's arrogance and arrogance towards others. If we look deeply, through the eyes of the soul, we see that he practices the dance of arrogance in the first place towards himself, towards his tender parts and his most intimate feelings. The heart of his soul, the flow of deep feelings, is hindered and imprisoned. A jailer of himself, he has become a captivus, a villain. By separating, alienating himself from himself, he betrayed his own soul. Having abandoned the sinballein, the divine spark, the ubuntal conscience, the trust in everything, he entrusted himself to the diaballein, to the devil, to the great internal liar.
Narcissistic people, in order to bear their weakness and to enter a state of grandeur, to deny reality to some extent and to feel more stimulated and stimulating, often drink and use drugs. They need to get stunned, to increase their energy through alcohol: they are braver if they are tipsy. In fact, the use of stimulants helps them to face the great and dangerous world, but risks making them even more detached from the sense of self and therefore even more ruthless, critical, oppositional. Sometimes they feel naked without barriers and defenses. In those moments, they feel a great fear of living and begin to feel sorry for themselves and to make victims. "How I have reduced myself," a desperate man will say because he feels abandoned by his lover who acted as a great mirror for him.
That of the perverse manipulator is a perversity akin to the depravity of moral sadism. The perverted character (perverse manipulator) has a conflicting personality, while the perverted narcissist is more subtle, acts without arousing the slightest suspicion, indeed manages to arouse compassion. The perverted character is more presumptuous, more uncompromising and aggressive. He reacts to frustrations in an exaggerated way and takes pleasure in humiliating his victim. After all, the pleasure of domination is only a typical perverse feeling. The perverse manipulator shows a clearly morbid attitude, a destabilizing behavior, a strategic ideation. It goes in search of destructive stimuli, has no scruples, remaining immune from feelings of guilt. Since he does not trust anyone, he has no friends, but accomplices. Sexual depravity exudes it in raw and coarse language, frankly vulgar, but, what is worse, it actualizes it in rape and incest. In the differential diagnosis, however, they can be clearly distinguished from paranoiacs, as the mental structure of the latter is an impediment to any emotional relationship, while perverts of character use the narcissism of others, and manipulate it, to strengthen the incompleteness of their ego.
The relational manipulator is a narcissistic, self-centered pathological personality type; a psycho-affective vampire that feeds on the vital essence of its prey. He criticizes, despises, blames, blackmails, reminding others of moral principles or the pursuit of perfection, but this only when it comes in handy. And to achieve his goals he resorts to deceptions, pseudo-logical arguments that turn situations upside down to his own advantage. Often its communication is paradoxical: opposite messages in double bind, to which it is impossible to respond without contradicting oneself; or it deforms the meaning of the speech. He commits himself, takes no responsibility, does not formulate explicit and clear requests. Yet he does not tolerate rejection, he always wants to have the last word to draw his conclusions, even if they are not shared. Change opinions and decisions. Above all, he lies, insinuates suspicions, reports misunderstandings. Simulates somatization and self-depreciation, but substantially demonstrates emotional disinterest.
In short, it is a question of disturbed and disturbing personalities, with which one can bond emotionally in order to be inevitably destabilized by their perfidious influence.

STORY OF A DECISION

I don’t want to try to live any life again. I got bastardized and the home is worse for me than the cauldron of cannibals. every day too many people ate my best meat and every day I fed their thoughts with succulent ardor and multicolored hopes. This lane no longer belongs to me, I am out of the white lines, I went beyond the yellow lines, I deleted the blue lines and I took possession of a space that has nothing to do with men. I jumped out of the lines of men and women ready for the handkerchief race. I saw my prize and refused it, even though it shone like pure gold. I am never the one who dwells in this non-existent rent. I sell myself to my thoughts. I sell myself to my breath. I sell myself to the stranger who lives in my houses. he has an immense need for inhuman pleasures. he is the worst of the inhuman demons. unfolds me on white sheets and folds my corners without hesitation, an origami of crowded evenings. I go to find the silence of the marble angels. I go where life no longer lives. I don’t bring flowers to anyone, I walk among my buried souls, I mix wet lands, replant dried flowers … I look at the photos of my deceased sisters, my soul mates … the others who were not as lucky as me to live despite my apparent death. They call me a vampire, they tell me a scribe, they think I’m alien. I can’t stand people paved with knowledge. reducing billions of sadness into sonic explosions leaping the pit of pain by stabbing black stars that fall like ash confetti. the apocalypse of sadness makes the angel more terrible and the trumpet sounds like thunder. the din of the mind increases, the detachment from human people increases, I am extinguished. I feel in the last non-stellar sky, on the top floor of inhuman pain, I feel myself going up and down for no reason, my love runs on black ice stairs, on roads that penetrate impossible, fearful darkness. fingers of flesh and wind slip into my torment. fingers of cardiac losses accumulate and open my chest. I open the doors of my feeling and immediately afterwards I regret it. I got a devil in every hair, a devil in my brain, a tiny tiny black elf that rubs itself on white surfaces to write his curses. two horns come out of the dream, two very long sharp golden tinsel. they turn to my power, they enter me without seeing any other direction. they come out of open walls, from walls of forgotten art, they come out of nights pierced by incomprehensible dreams. pearls come out of the darkness of nostalgia, they twist into pointed horns and I stare at endless nights. swamps smoke, the sun goes down, the pain disappears. the abysses fall! incredible crash of pieces of glass, of crystal wings, of metal hearts. my angels dance with dagger blades that become stems of roses without corollas. my angels protect my brain from the depths of steel, from the seas of gold, from cruel power. my angels crash into the walls of my pain, strangled by the love of living. they flee and return to their purple skies. voices intertwine, voices are released, from within and everything comes out, in a moment, in a single second, the world is torn apart and the killer enters the scene. no one knows his past, no one knows his pain, no one knows the subtle pleasure, the need, the desire … the instinct to kill. hidden inside is what triggered the bomb, what triggered the blow, what caused the nefarious fury, the sublime revenge … scenes and other scenes revisited in the imagination, scenes and scenes acted without script … what do you want to know? what do you want to know about a killer or a killer? Is the thinking distorted or is it in the world that everything goes wrong? when the hand is thrown choosing to give death it is the power of the man that holds the heart of the murderer in a grip of sublime pleasure and that makes him feel like any god, renegade or not. what thirst for knowledge burns in your veins? what do you want to know about the pleasure of killing? what brings you on the path of the unspeakable sin of the human mind? silence awakens me and silence doesn’t make me sleep. a crowd throngs inside my heart and I’m ready to strike again. is it me you were waiting for? here is the explanation for all of you, a confession opened from a cell without a lock, a superhuman torture because those who know the journey but never the destination! I didn’t know what I was doing, I didn’t remember I was another person … I was using another name maybe I was there and maybe I wasn’t there, a memory gap, for no apparent reason, something that you feel inside, something that doesn’t add up .., and yet it was I who had done everything, I had decided it a long time ago … or was it even before? I don’t remember, a memory lapse. but why understand? why ask again? there is no explanation for the pleasure of dying inside others. it’s another person, it’s not me. I was not there. I’m not… no voice, no voice anymore … from my silence. a word broke my voice, a word that doesn’t break my silence. never again no voice will come out of my throat. no voice, no voice. he killed the voice, he didn’t kill the silence … and I will kill him in silence … I’ll take away the one thing he doesn’t have … life. no voice, no voice I will give to my silence … nobody wants to know, nobody has to know the torment of being a killer. no more voice will tell you which is my favorite weapon, no word of mine will tell my wound, no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. no voice for those who do not want to hear or hear … no confession beyond all daring! never again do men deserve to know, to know pain … no voice of me, no voice of me … it changes like a fish. changes like an executioner inside his victim!

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