Do you really know yourself?

Sometimes I feel like a psychopath with a string of tendencies pulling at my thoughts. I watch people. I observe them. I want to hurt them, instill fear and pain.
A sea of humans just flowing into an unending abyss of life and its motion. Each having a world of emotions and thoughts of their own. An universe that no other can penetrate. A universe some of us choose to share with ink and paper. A way to bleed in blue and black. A galaxy just to yourself. Seven billion galaxies in a single planet. A planet part of just one out of ten trillion galaxies.
No, you're not the centre of the universe. You're not alone. You have a family. Humans. Earthlings. Strangers. You're not unique either, if you think you're better than anyone else– there are ones who are tenfold better than you. They excel in the skill you thought only you knew best. They exceed expectations beyond your limitations.
No, you're not unique. But you're you. There's only one you. One set of your DNA. One set of your fingerprints. Use your hands to do good. Use them to commit sins only through words on pages. Commit to the sin, give in to your universe, let your mind take over.
I write not to make people read. I write to make a difference. I play with my words like they're strings to puppets, dangling, waiting to dance. I use my words to pull at strings. Strings in your mind. Gears churning effortlessly. I pull at them to strike a chord, to create a melody, to make you dance– don't you see, you're the puppet. You read my words and I control you. I control your universe for now. I'm not penetrating it, I'm simply making you land in places you haven't been. Making you swim into the sea of disdain. Making you glide through clouds of serenity. You won't find the edge to your world– it revolves around you and it ends with you. No Big Bang. Just an end of the puppet show.
Let us in into your world too. And we'll let you into ours. The inhumanity, the destruction– they can't kill your world. Save it, don't let it die. Your world might be someone else's shelter, someone else seeking refuge into a world unknown.

I'm talking to you, I'm talking to your conscience. I'm puppeteering at my own conscience, trying to connect to yours, creating a telepathic bridge. Maybe sometimes your soul isn't your own. Its strings are being pulled by people around you. You don't want them to but you don't have a choice– take the step, eradicate annihilating influence, cleanse yourself; you're you, you're not them. They don't know you like you know you. They don't know your world, your universe. They exist in their puny self destructive galaxies of their own, not knowing when they will end. No authenticity of their universe. Break your boundaries, stretch your visions, reach the summit.

No, I'm not talking to​ you. I'm talking to myself and you're in my world right now, reading my thoughts. Relax, your world isn't ending tonight.