Scrolls of Insanity

The Man Behind the Madness —

Who Am I to Write This? I ask myself this question often. Not with humility, but with a bitter tone of self-awareness that borders on theatrical guilt. I am not a doctor. I am not a priest. I am not a philosopher — at least not one with credentials. I am a teacher of English, a failed computer scientist, a man who once believed, with holy trembling and unshakable conviction, that he was Al Mahdi Almontadar — the awaited savior of mankind.

I was diagnosed with manic psychosis two years ago. Delirious mania, they called it. State-of-the-art madness. I had reached the kind of spiritual altitude that melts the mind — a place where God whispers, demons applaud, and angels just watch!

I took a detour into metaphysical delusion. And I’ve been clawing my way back ever since. But not too fast. Some part of me still lingers there — in that luminous darkness — because truth be told, it felt good to be insane. It felt realer than reality. To believe you’re the center of the cosmic play… how intoxicating.

So why do I write? Because I need to. Because these scrolls are my courtroom. They are my confessional, my scripture, my suicide note that never finishes. They are not written to teach anyone how to live — in fact, they might convince you of the exact opposite. They are not motivational. They are not self-help. If anything, they are confessions written in blood; ink never satisfies in my town . But they are honest. That’s all I can promise you: honesty.

I write because I can no longer afford the silence. Silence is too expensive. It costs me my sanity. It costs me my dignity. It costs me my soul. So I scream into the void with ink. Scrolls of Insanity is a symbolic memoir. It’s not a novel. It’s a fragmented testimony of a life unraveling from the inside out.

The early scrolls are philosophical, mystical, obsessive. They are obsessed with shame, with false virtue, with spiritual masochism and divine absence. I wrote them while bleeding guilt and craving absolution. They are stitched with contradiction. One scroll damns the ego, the next secretly celebrates it. That’s not inconsistency. That’s human nature laid bare.

Midway in the journey I change direction. Those entries begin to tell the actual story — how I got here. Not as a diagnosis, but as a slow-motion moral collapse. The narrative starts from university days. From failed ambitions, fraudulent exams, and moments of glory built on lies. It starts when I realized I loved English not just as a language, but as a mask — a way to wear another identity, to escape the shoddy script of my socioeconomic origin.

While my classmates memorized phrases, I was falling in love with Orwell, Bukowski, Dazai. I was already infected. These scrolls are not linear. They don’t care for clean chronology. What they seek is exposure — not of events, but of motives. I want to expose the dark logic behind my actions, even when the actions themselves seem ordinary. I want to strip myself of the noble lies I’ve clung to: that I was only a victim, that I was always misunderstood, that I never meant harm. I did. And I do. And writing this is how I begin to accept that.

If you've ever stared into your own reflection and seen something foreign — something too twisted to be innocent, too clever to be purely evil — then you might recognize yourself in these scrolls. If you’ve ever felt like your own mind betrayed you, or worse, that you betrayed your own mind, this series is for you. I don't promise clarity. I don't even promise coherence. But I do promise truth — the kind of truth that burns, not soothes. So, who am I?