I feel cramped among people

Introduction

Every writer, before releasing any book, has at least once wondered for whom their work might be of interest.

In my case – I have no answer.

I am not writing this book for the approval of readers, nor am I striving for mass appeal. Everything collected on the following pages is the result of inner pressure and far too long a silence.

Perhaps someone will like my book. And surely there will be someone who will want to throw it in the trash.

In both cases, it will mean only one thing to me – my text works.

This work is not a manifesto. It is a slice, a layer, a cast of a state of mind.

If you are simply holding it in your hands, you have already done more than I expected. Thank you.

Do not look here for answers. They are all within you.

And this book is a place where you can stop lying. For once.

Act I. Sowing, or the Beginning of Beginnings

«They say loneliness kills.

It didn`t stop me anyway.»

Chapter I. Human as a Mistake

SEEDS OF ORIGIN

«There is a seed in each of us.

It does not ask for care, it does not require care. It's just waiting for a person to stumble.

And then it sprouts…»

Each person is a unique being – with their own specific character, mindset, innate abilities, and shortcomings. Even such metrics as the manner of conversation, general behavior, and points of view are non-repetitive natural qualities that are in no way possible to transmit by blood and other means.

Each of us is terrible in our way.

Someone is neurotic, one is selfish, another a cynic: this list could go on forever.

That is normal. And it is natural.

We did not create ourselves. We are nothing more than seeds; sprouts with a singular biological code, planted by someone else and abandoned to their fate. The lucky ones fall into rich black soil; the others, into dry and stubborn ground.

Perhaps the place where we land shapes us, but we'll never know. And it doesn't matter.

Not every seed grows into a tulip or a lily. There will always be thorns, carnivorous sundews, poisonous mushrooms– the less pleasant kinds of life. And the truth is, we can do nothing to change it.

The Earth will carry any creature it births. That is life – fact, and cruelty, all at once. Those not crushed will survive.

From the seed alone, you cannot know what will grow. There is a bitter irony in that: the seed of a daisy may be far worse than that of a nettle – and even nettles can bloom. In the end, care and hardship can twist and reshape what we become, ignoring everything else.

What matters most is this: a “type” is only a crude sketch, never the whole truth. It is impossible to find a perfectly suitable living being for anyone's description.

P.S. It's not about plants at all.

CRY OF THE SOUL

«The only thing more terrifying than a scream is the truth that caused it.

Both cut just as deep.»

90% of the people reading this have dreams and plans for their lives. Chains of motives, or single, sharp goals.

They are built with cynical logic, dressed in inspiration from perfect examples, and wrapped in elegant words.

Until a certain time.

But sooner or later, all of it stops being so pleasant, when it comes to fulfilling these desires.

And that is when the most interesting part begins.

Every one of us carries a swollen ego.

A silent cry of the soul that bursts out and triggers in moments of injustice, insult, or suffocating discomfort.

Screaming into the throat only when its owner becomes unbearably displeasing with everything around.

This outcry is like a protective barrier, saving from problems;

a reflection of our rawest intentions;

a mirror so clear it’s almost cruel.

Once you hear it, you can’t unhear it or run away.

Not because it chains you, but because ignoring it burns worse than facing it.

It’s hard to become an altruist when the cost is your own path. It’s easier to turn your back on the world and move forward alone.

Isn’t it?

The cry of the soul is louder than any prayer never heard.

It is what remains when all other notions and belief fail. Those who listen – carve through stone. Those who silence it – dissolve into nothing.

You can’t hide from it. It is the movement itself, laying the road long before you take the first step.

And only when the noise of the world dies down do we remember what we wanted to scream from the start.

Sometimes in time.

Sometimes never.

MASKS, MASKS, AND MORE MASKS

«Each of us wears more faces than we should.

And none of them are truly ours.»

Almost everyone carries more personalities inside themselves than they have actual friends. One face for work. Another for family. A third for friends. And, in the cruelest twist, even for themselves – a mask.

People call it “adaptation.” But it is closer to deformation.

The more you hide from others, the easier it becomes to lose yourself.

The original fades, swallowed by the army of disguises. Sometimes, the confusion grows so deep that you put on the wrong face for the wrong crowd – and do not even notice.

It is only in moments of absolute silence – when there is no one left to impress, to fear, or to persuade – that a strange unease emerges.

As if someone foreign lives in your body.

As if there is a somebody inside you unseen by anyone —

even yourself.

Masks are nothing more than lies we tell to others, and worse – to ourselves. A survival trick, no nobler than camouflage.

That is why there are so many.

From childhood, we are taught to be “right,” to be “convenient.” By parents, by friends, by strangers.

We are trained to betray our principles long before we even know what they are.

And so, for many, the greatest fear becomes not death – but being themselves.

Everyone insists that hiding is safer than showing. Society rewards dishonesty and punishes openness.

Masks do not lie – they protect. But in time, protection becomes prison. And the masks that once saved us begin to strangle us.

The terrifying truth is this: the world prefers masks to faces. To refuse them is to invite rejection and panic.

And if a person wears masks for too long, something irreversible happens.

They no longer remove a costume.

They remove themselves.

Chapter II. A World One Does Not wish to Live in

LIES TURNED TO SKIN

«Самая ужасная ложь – это та, в которую ты сам начинаешь верить.»

Every one of us has lied – to others, to ourselves, to anyone. That much is fact. And with the very first lie begins a dreadful process: the acceptance of deceit as a tool, and its infection of everything we do.

At first, lying feels like a temporary fix. It starts with small things: not to offend, to appear better, to blend into the herd.

In the beginning, lies are like clothes – something you wear when it is too cold to be yourself.