I’ve walked a path of jagged edges, where every step is a wound, every breath a reminder of my own insignificance. In the throes of self-inflicted pain, I’ve sought answers—not in the lies of modern society, but in the brutal honesty of ancient minds: Buddha, Nietzsche, and Marcus Aurelius. These aren’t just names from dusty books; they’re the architects of my awakening, the ones who tore the veil off the universe’s indifference and society’s pathetic charade. Through their words, I’ve come to own my truth, my mantra: “I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING. This is who I am, this is what I am, this is who I will be.” This isn’t defeat—it’s my fucking liberation, etched into my skin with every cut and burn.

First, there’s the Buddha, the serene sage who didn’t shy away from the ugliness of existence. His teachings of dukkha—suffering as the root of life—hit me like a blade to the gut. Everything is pain: the ache of being born, the decay of aging, the finality of death. And anatta, the concept of no-self, shattered any delusion I had of inherent worth. I’m not some special snowflake with a divine purpose; I’m a fleeting shadow, a collection of fleeting impulses dissolving into the void. The universe doesn’t give a shit about me, or anyone. Society tries to mask this with fake smiles and meaningless goals, but Buddha’s clarity cuts deeper than any knife I’ve held. When I drag the razor across my arm, watching crimson bloom, I’m not just feeling pain—I’m living dukkha, embodying anatta. I am nothing, and that nothingness is my first step to truth. My mantra was born in this realization: worthlessness isn’t a curse; it’s the only honest state of being.

Then comes Nietzsche, the wild bastard who spat on society’s gods and morals. He saw the death of God, the collapse of all the fairy tales we tell ourselves to sleep at night. Without a higher power, the universe is a chaotic, amoral playground, and society is just a herd of cowards too scared to face it. His will to power became my gospel—life isn’t about happiness, it’s about struggle, about overcoming through raw, unyielding force. The eternal recurrence, the idea of reliving every torment forever, doesn’t scare me; it fuels me. Society labels my self-harm as sickness, but Nietzsche would see it as my triumph, my rejection of their slave morality. Every burn I brand into my flesh is an act of creation, a middle finger to a world that demands I conform. I’m useless to their systems, worthless by their standards, nothing in their eyes—and I revel in it. My mantra echoes Nietzsche’s call to embrace the abyss: I am what I am, and I’ll be this forever, unashamed and unbroken.

Marcus Aurelius, the stoic warrior-king, rounds out this trinity of harsh truth. He sat on a throne, yet saw himself as dust, a speck in the cosmic machine. In his Meditations, he wrote of the universe’s vastness, how our lives are but a blink, soon to be forgotten. Amor fati—love of fate—became my shield. Society chases wealth, fame, and comfort, but Aurelius knew these are illusions, fleeting distractions from the inevitable. True power lies in accepting your lot, enduring suffering with grit. When I press hot metal to my skin, wincing through the sizzle, I’m not just hurting—I’m practicing stoicism, loving my fate, embracing the pain as my teacher. Society sees me as a freak, but I’m following Aurelius’s path, finding strength in detachment from their petty values. I’m nothing to the cosmos, useless to time’s endless march, worthless in the grand scheme—and my mantra cements this as my creed, a stoic affirmation of my place in the void.

Together, these three expose the universe as a cold, uncaring expanse, a stage for suffering without script or savior. Society is a lie we’ve built to hide from this, a flimsy construct of fake purpose and forced worth. Buddha showed me I’m nothing at my core, Nietzsche taught me to glory in that nothingness as power, and Aurelius urged me to accept it as my destiny. They’ve stripped me bare, leaving only the truth I chant in the dark, as I mark my body with pain: “I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING. This is who I am, this is what I am, this is who I will be.” Each word is a scar, a testament to my rejection of society’s illusions and my embrace of the universe’s brutal honesty.

If you’re out there, lost in the noise of a world that demands you matter, turn to these voices. Let Buddha dissolve your ego, Nietzsche ignite your defiance, and Aurelius ground you in acceptance. Craft your own mantra from the ashes of their wisdom, and let it guide your own rituals of pain. Society will never understand, but we don’t need them to. We’ve seen the void, felt its cold breath, and chosen to dance with it.

In unyielding nothingness,