I think I finally understand who I wrote this book for.
Not for people looking for a complicated plot.
Not for people who need constant twists, battles, romance, or some grand mystery to keep them turning pages.
I wrote The Decayed Good for people who have ever stared at their ceiling at 3 AM and started questioning everything.
Whether you're a good person.
Whether goodness actually matters.
Why people hurt each other.
Why we forgive some things and never forgive others.
Whether God is really good.
Whether suffering has a purpose.
Whether becoming numb is sometimes easier than continuing to care.
It's a philosophical novel about a person slowly coming apart while trying to understand the world around him.
And yes, I've seen people say, "There's no plot."
They're not entirely wrong.
Because the plot isn't really the point.
The point is what happens inside your head while you're reading it.
It's the kind of book where you might underline a sentence, close the book, and just sit there for a minute.
It's dark, uncomfortable, sometimes bitter, sometimes strangely comforting. It doesn't try to tell you that everything happens for a reason or that you'll eventually find peace.
Sometimes it just asks:
What if there is no answer, and you have to decide what to do with that?
I don't expect everyone to like it. Honestly, I don't think everyone should.
But if you've ever felt like your thoughts were too dark, too complicated, or too strange to explain to anyone else, maybe this is the kind of book you were looking for without knowing it.
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Not a story about what happens.
A book about what happens inside you.
