© 2025 Erik Mirren. Questo sito custodisce l’opera dell’autore, i cui testi possono essere condivisi su social o altre piattaforme, sempre e solo sotto il nome Erik Mirren, mai attribuiti ad altri. Immagini e contenuti visivi restano esclusi da ogni utilizzo.
Erik Mirren
“Fragments too raw to fit — so they live here.”
🖋️ My Dark Space
You won’t find clean chapters or wrapped-up stories here. Just fragments — words dropped along the march, torn from pages that couldn’t hold them.Too raw. Too unstable. Too real for the polished world of novels.
Or just curses, whispered at midnight to no one in particular. Some of these lines came after nights I don’t remember leaving. Some were born between sheets that didn’t belong to me. Some survived battles — with myself, with meaning, with silence.
I left them here like seeds in the dirt, hoping they’d take root. Some will rot. Some will vanish. But others…
Others might grow wild — into stories, or books, or maybe just stay buried under your ribs like a splinter you can’t stop touching.
This place? It’s not a garden. It’s a fever field.There are no guided trails, no signs, no promises.
Only dark soil, and things waiting to bloom or die. Each phrase is a scar from the war of writing. Cut loose because they were too soft, too real, or simply too mine. Some came at dawn. Others slipped in from dreams half-forgotten. Some? I have no memory of ever writing them. But they’re mine anyway. Or maybe yours. There’s no logic here. No symmetry. But if you linger, if you let the silence bite a little, you might hear something. Not my voice. Yours.
The one you buried long ago.
✍️ Every unwritten line is a move I didn’t dare to make.
📄 The blank page is never empty.
It’s just full of everything I still haven’t had the guts to say.
🖋️ I woke up knowing something inside me was broken.
And honestly? Thank God—I had zero plans to fix it.
🔪 The silence is the real killer. Words are just the ones left behind to bury the body.
🖋️ “I write for those who stopped waiting for answers— but never stopped asking the hard questions.”
🔥 Writing was my way of not screaming. Or maybe... screaming without getting thrown out.
Some truths don’t ask to be heard.
They show up at your door like ghosts — and all you can do is write them down.
Not to understand them. Just to survive their gaze.
There are thoughts that no longer belong to me, but they come back like cruel lovers, only to remind me of who I used to be.
I write for those who were never invited to the party. For those who listen from the doorway, in silence.
I saw the truth. She was tired, disheveled, and laughing at me... it pissed me off something fierce.
Madness isn't losing your mind. It's seeing what others refuse to look at..
There's a thin line between vision and madness. I slipped across like a stowaway and now I live there, without any documents.
I slept inside a sentence for thirty years. Then someone read it, and I woke up.
One day I'll write a book so true it will stop being fiction all by itself.
As I was saying... there's no rhyme or reason to this place!
Writing is like plunging your hands into the still-warm earth of a cemetery. You're searching for something you never buried, but that keeps speaking to you from below. Words come from there — from the unclaimed bodies of memory, from stillborn dreams, from regrets no one wanted to face. A writer doesn't create: they exhume.
Scattered Thoughts on Sale
"Rules don't matter when the game is life itself."
"I don't trust myself without my fears."
"The city pulsed with secrets. I was just one more."
"Every light a story, every shadow a secret."
"I fell to find freedom. And in death, I found peace."
"Her words were daggers. And I was tired of dodging."
"A brief love can leave eternal scars."
"I'm just a pathetic asshole, dressed up as a man who has his shit together."
"I've kissed women I don't remember to forget the one I can't stop loving."
“She wasn't just a love—she was a whole dimension. Ever since she left, I've been chasing her ghost in every face, in every bed, in every held breath. Every woman I've been with has been an attempt—sometimes desperate, sometimes pathetic—to relive what died with her. But the past doesn't come back. And love, when you lose it like that, sticks to you like a bad habit.”
Thoughts
"I write for those who stopped waiting for answers, but never stopped asking questions."
"There are nights when the only company is the sound of thought crawling across the room."
"If you're looking for comfort, you're in the wrong place. You come here to look inside yourself, even when it hurts."
"Every word I've written is a mistake that taught me how to bleed with dignity."
"Loneliness isn't the absence of company. It's the price you pay for not lying to yourself."
"My books are carcasses of dreams, stacked one on top of another to build a bridge to hell."
"In every story I left unfinished, there's a part of me that didn't have the courage to reach its end."
"The wind wrapped around me like a jealous lover as I plummeted. Every city light died in the night's haze, every memory dissolving into the void. Marta was my salvation and my damnation. And as we fell together, I realized that true freedom is born in that exact moment when you accept losing all control."
My Life
At eighteen, I thought I was a genius destined to rewrite history.
At thirty, I was a brilliant man with just a few gaps to fill... nothing a few books couldn't fix.
At forty, I knew I had worth, but I was learning to keep my head down when it mattered.
At fifty, I realized I wasn't going to change the world, and that half of what I knew was wrong.
Today I've figured out that I don't know shit, and the world has changed me so much that sometimes I barely recognize myself.
But at least now I know how to laugh. Even if it's often at myself. And fuck the world!"
"Sometimes God is silent. Other times, He screams through your voice."
"On my island, wounds don't heal. They become flowers."
"Writing isn't an act of creation. It's unearthing."
"My silence makes more noise than a thousand voices."