I learned something the hard way:
The truth doesn’t trend.
It doesn’t fit in a headline.
It doesn’t go viral.
It doesn’t make for good clickbait.
But lies?
Lies are easy.
They’re sharp.
They travel fast.
And once they’re out there, it doesn’t matter how many times you tell the real story—
you’re always chasing a shadow.
I’ve seen my name rewritten by strangers.
People I’ve never met—
publishing stories about me, dissecting my motives,
pulling quotes from places I never said them,
grabbing screenshots with no context and calling them evidence.
All because the truth wasn’t interesting enough.
Because “human being” doesn’t sell.
But “scammer,” “villain,” “creep”—
that sells.
I became a brand for everything they needed to hate.
They built a version of me that was easier to digest.
The version who woke up planning to deceive.
The version who orchestrated chaos.
The version who deserved every comment, every laugh, every brutal joke.
That version?
He never existed.
What existed was someone trying—
imperfectly, desperately—to build something meaningful.
To turn pain into poetry.
To make people feel something other than numb.
But the story of a damaged artist searching for redemption?
Not clickable enough.
So they cut it.
Reduced it.
Sensationalised it.
And I became a caricature of my worst moment.
What they got wrong is thinking silence meant guilt.
Sometimes silence is survival.
Sometimes you’re so buried in grief, shame, confusion, and sheer disbelief
that the words don’t come until later—
when no one’s listening anymore.
But I’m speaking now.
And I’m not doing it for attention.
I’m doing it because the weight of being misunderstood
is heavier than the hate.
I don’t need everyone to love me.
I’m not stupid.
I know some people made up their minds long ago.
I’m not writing for them.
I’m writing for the ones who’ve felt reduced.
Misquoted.
Framed.
Burned by narratives they never got to shape.
I’m writing because the truth may not trend—
but it survives.
And so do I.
So when you search my name,
you won’t just find noise anymore.
You’ll find this.
You’ll find me.
The version that isn’t pretty.
But is real.
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