© 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.
“Words that never asked permission. Only space.”
Who the Hell Is Erik?
“Everyone writes bios. I don’t.
What I’ve done means nothing. Who I am — that’s the only thing that matters.”No résumés. No degrees. No awards.
I won’t list where I studied, who I met, or how many times I’ve been on TV.
I’ve been there. I’ve done it. And I’m done with it.This is my biography — written not in facts, but in fire. Not in achievements, but in scars. Not in places I've been, but in the voices I leave behind. If you're looking for a polished profile, go elsewhere.
Here, you’ll only find one thing: the truth I bleed onto the page.
I don’t do bios. I write truths.
Truths that don’t care about your résumé, your titles, your fucking degrees.
This is my biography — not made of things I’ve done, but of the things I still dare to feel.
📩 Letter to the Reader
Dear friend,
I’m writing you this letter to share a piece of my soul—one I’ve kept buried too long, suffocated by the weight of expectations and other people’s opinions.
I write because I need to scream... that life isn’t always beautiful. It’s not a feel-good movie, or a song that lifts your heart.
Real life—the one we live when the lights go out and we’re alone with our thoughts—can be hell. A hell made of thoughts that eat at your soul, fears that freeze you, and that constant voice that tells you you're never enough.
You know those nights. When breathing feels impossible. When your eyes search for something to hold on to, but all you see are your demons—dancing right in front of you. That’s when life hits its lowest. And worst of all? People don’t get it. They can’t. Because those nights have a guest list—only the most sensitive get in. The ones who feel everything, too deeply. The ones who overthink, who break too easily, but never stop hoping.
We’re the ones who cry too hard, laugh too loud, love like it’s a damn religion. The world calls us “too much.” Too intense. Too fragile. Because this world only claps for winners.
And the others? The ones on the outside? They talk. They judge. They throw cliché lines like grenades:
“Just cheer up, others have it worse.”
“It’s just a phase.”
“When I was your age, I didn’t have time to be sad.”
But I know what hell looks like inside you. I know what it’s like to fight to hide it, while hoping someone, anyone, will see it.
Because how do you explain what it feels like to have a hammer drilling into your skull, or a heart that pounds like it’s being sentenced?
I know sometimes it feels like there’s only one way out. But trust me—that’s a damn lie.
That darkness, that hole inside you? It might never fully go away. I’ve lived with it too long to pretend otherwise.
But here’s the twist—sometimes, that void becomes a gift.
Because unlike those who only have space for themselves, we have room to carry the love we find along the way.
It could be a look. A kiss. A sunset. A song. A sentence that saves you. Every fragment of beauty is a brick in the wall we build against the dark.
I almost filled that void. Almost. And let me tell you—even getting close to “almost” is a damn miracle.
So I’m not asking you to trust life. Just trust those who walk beside you.
Because out there, in the chaos, are people who will love you without asking anything in return. Even when you push them away.
Let them in. Let them light the cracks in your soul. Sometimes, a little light is all it takes.
Don’t trust me—I’m just some voice behind a screen.
But trust the ones who stay. Let them carry your weight when your knees give out.
Let them help you breathe again.
I made it through.
And I believe—deep down, I know—you will too.
Because despite the sleepless nights, despite the hidden despair...
we're still here. Telling our stories. Reaching out. Searching for a spark in this beautifully messed up world.
Don’t wait for life to give you what you want. Maybe it’s waiting for you to figure out what you need to give it.
No matter how brutal it gets—this is still your life.
Surprise it. Be the author of your own ending.
Maybe that’s the whole point.
Maybe that’s what makes life worth it:
Knowing where you are. Knowing you’re not alone.
And realizing—even in the middle of the storm—there’s still a chance for peace.
With love,
A soul who learned how to dance with his demons, Erik
