The Machiavellian of the Emotional Landscape

A philosophical monologue blending unapologetic self-aware confessions with an unspoken yearning for integration and ultimate resolution.

Beneath the intellectual facade, a wounded child weeps, longing for warm arms and reassuring speech.
His dreams often feature his mother's bed, hinting at a fundamental need that has never been adequately met.
His sharp gloomy eyes whisper the echoes of dissonant heartbeats and a melody that haunts and screams.
If he ever notices your acute pensive gaze in his despair, the unflinching honesty he adamantly prizes will shock you,
murmuring the cliched lyrics of Imagine Dragons: 

When you feel my heat, look into my eyes

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

Don't get too close, it's dark inside

It's where my demons hide

It's where my demons hide

If you keep insisting on deciphering the child's essence, he will cave, declaring a sinister reality of a Machiavellian
spirit that infiltrated the emotional landscape and swore to rise above what humanity has held dear and sacred.
Beware, the broken child is a slithering snake in the making, and for him, emotional fulfillment is but a milestone
toward power and mastery. To demolish idols, one has to flirt with them. To conquer Voldemort, Potter digested a
piece of him. The child's wound is bloodier than what emotional dissatisfaction begets. He disbelieves the denial
of the will. He swims in what he deems perilous to blow it with a sledgehammer of resolve and grit. He loves,
for sure, only to overcome the need for love. He befriends, undoubtedly, so he can gain the luxury of withdrawal
 in a heartbeat if he feels like it. 

The Machiavellian sinner child is power-drunk and idolizes mastery above all else. He'd rather rule in intellectual
hell than serve the agonized souls looking for a redemptive sip from the holy grail of love. If you clinically scratch
beneath the odious layers of his psyche, you will find yourself speechless and paralyzed, unable to determine
whether the child lusts for power or is merely defending himself against the dangers lurking behind the lack of it.
But one thing will console you about the child and force you to accompany him in the turmoil of clashing forces:
his unwavering honesty. The ink he pours is but a testament to cataclysmic psychic willpower that can master itself
and maybe even deliberately succumb to love and overcome power itself.