although it seems to be correct. The word fallacy comes from the Latin verb fallere, which means to deceive. Regressive fallacies happen when we do not take into account the natural and inevitable variations of things when attempting to verify their causes.

Self-illusion is the process of deceiving ourselves in order to accept as true or worthy what is fake or unworthy. Summing up, it is a way we find to justify our false beliefs to ourselves, and for that, we make unconscious and indiscriminate use of fallacies. Indeed, self-illusion is not all bad. If we were absolutely honest and concrete about our life in general and our capabilities, we would get debilitatingly depressed.

I am a delirious dreamer suffocated by idealised dreams of dreamed ideals so unreachable that they always show up to me as being impossible.
I seek the difficult.

I am an eternal frustrated suffocated by materialised frustrations of materials frustrated by splinters of forgotten reached dreams.
I despise all I will possess.

I do more things than I should, and fewer things than I would like.
All of them perfectly confused in an intermittent confusion.
I am ambitious of an unmeasured ambition fed by a pulsating curiosity which beats in my breathless veins;
Which wants and longs and searches and desires it all;
The here and the there and the second and the hour and the good and the evil and the new and the old and all the world full of all possible and impossible things.
I am the staff coming from the dark water.

This World is trapped intrinsically inside a corrupted net that will never be peacefully dismembered.
I am impotent of a complete impotence,
Of an ant,
Who nothing is in the invisible infinity;
Who no matter how much tries to carry five times its weight over its limp and unfed body.
Simply can not.
And it hurts me.

Hurts a pungent excruciating pain which squeezes my plasmatic membranes ones against the others and makes each of my cells,
Individually,
Years for a death they do not know how to provide.

The sweet ache of the world obstructs my nostrils.
I pretend myself to be unsmeller.

I shake to the drift in my own procrastination sea sitting observing contemplative time draining between my fingers without not even move myself,
Only staring and absorbing the yellow pain,
Interpreted by my cells as pure impotence;
Sometimes;
I sail towards what I want,
And then I find myself halfway, sometimes at the end,
Not knowing what I want.
I do no know what I want.
Before,
I would need to know what I am.
I do not know what I am.

I then dive in search of myself,
But the more I know myself,
The more I lose myself among my smelly viscera.

Yes,
My eye watches you.

There is no altruism
Relationships are illusions.
Either one is; or one loves;
There is no love

There is deprivation
There is sexual attraction
There is longing
There is possessiveness
There is the hunger for emptiness

And yet though,
I love.
Intensely Madly.
I love everything that gets to touch me subjectively,
And art
And human coloured human and share our minds and enter their walls and having mine’s doors forced and explore our senses and captivate them and be captivated and eventually;
Love them.
, and the fox said you are responsible for me, forever.
But I am sorry; I can not give you what you want from me.
I am Sierva Maria de todos los Ángeles possessed by the Devil.
And I become obsessed by everything I love.

I want love, I want hate, but I do not want indifference.

My inner-self,
Weak, stupid and wounded,
Suffers from impotence imprisoned inside my walls strongly
Protected and secluded and sheltered and confined and cosseted and looked after and conserved
By my external-self,
Brave, sagacious and strong,
Perfectly armed and fortified.

My biggest obstacle is myself.
I am afraid of myself.
I am afraid of the world.

I am going to murder coldly my external-self to release my inner-self.
Tell me how.

Sometimes taciturn, other times maniac.
Always misanthropist.

I hate human beings.
I hate myself.

I am a bit dyslexic.
I can not bear my biologic limitations.

Ah! Was I simple energy,
A thinking nothing amidst nothing,
Hunger-less, horny-less or sleepy-less.

But and however and nonetheless and nevertheless
Those infamous and profane needs are what keeps me wake.
It is fulfilling them the fuel of my dream.
And my dream is my life.

I hate thinking; I think too much.

I wish I were ignorant,
Arrogant,
Had in my senses nothing but my biological needs.
I wish I had my suffering diluted by religious hypnosis.

I can not.

Once opened the eyes,
One can not simply close them back.

My insaciable empitiness hungers.

Like you, I am blind, and my injured hands touch the darkness in search of what really matters.

I took too long to finally realise my parents have ever been right about everything they were wrong.

My perfect family was threatened by the infinite and omnipotent divine goodness.

Amaranta Úrsula jumped off from the ninth floor and had strength enough to stagger two meters and nestle before letting go off her short life.

Where is God?

Mourning.

To die drowned in a fated mud puddle of the rain water that never falls mixed to the dry and infertile sand beside a flowery mandacaru with the mind torpid by the alcoholic dream of a kinesthetic perfect world to cure the pain that dominates the soul afflicted by the fugitive human misfortune over the earth leaving three orphan children to be lost at the endless battle against society with the eyes wide opened sparkling staring the misery mud that burns in god; here is the mystery of our faith.

I am an old un-dead from a wasted un-life.
I wander lost in the limb between incomprehension and despair.
I need my saviour to get me away from my life.

I am raskólnikov.

I create my very own illusions.
I believe in what I want.
I am a fallacy.

So, Your Magnanimity,
are you.