…I’m A Good Person…

A cry for understanding – maybe ironic, maybe desperately sincere.
This track isn’t a confession. It’s more like coughing up everything that’s been rotting for too long – words no one wanted to hear, thoughts circling like vultures over the remains of whatever I used to be.

The sound is filthy – like the walls of a place you only return to in nightmares. The voice, warped and drowning in static, fights its way through the noise – but mostly through what’s left in my own head.
Nothing here is polished. There’s no catharsis. Just weight. Because life rarely offers redemption – it just leaves you to clean up the mess you hoped would die inside.

“I’m a good person.” I say it.
But it’s not a mantra – it’s a question.
Asked from a place where I already know there’s no answer.
Because maybe there’s nothing left to bring it. Maybe all that’s left is the desperate, broken urge for someone else to confirm something I don’t feel anymore.
I don’t feel good.
I don’t feel anything good still lives in me.
Just the emptiness – cold and heavy – staring back at me from the sunken eyes in the mirror.

This is the trace of someone who wanted to feel again.
A laugh forced into silence.
These are emotions that gave up asking to be saved – they just lie there. Dirty. Wet. Real.

Signed: Niflheim

...I'm A Good Person...

Hi,

I’m an independent musician from Poland, working within the realm of ambient and its many, often unconventional subgenres. Part of my work is deeply immersed in Norse mythology — the raw, symbolic world of gods, warriors, rituals, and the inevitable Ragnarök. I don’t simply retell myths; I interpret them through sound, trying to capture their weight, mystery, and timeless power. My compositions transport listeners to spaces where time flows differently, and every whisper and echo carries the resonance of ancient tales.

But that’s only one layer of my artistry. Another is a dirty, naturalistic soundscape — direct, raw, and often uncomfortable. I address themes many prefer to avoid, painting pictures people usually look away from, yet secretly can’t stop glancing at.

I step into the shoes of broken, lost characters, teetering on the edge of morality and their own conscience. Sometimes — like Raskolnikov — I carry the thought of crossing a boundary, of destruction that can be both a cry of despair and a search for meaning in a chaotic world. This tension and inner conflict permeate my music, giving it intensity.

You can hear the echo of Dostoevsky in my work — not as a literary quotation, but as a state of mind: grappling with meaninglessness, the tension between the desire to understand and a sense of alienation. This is not music meant to soothe, but to confront what we often don’t say aloud.

Two worlds intersect here: the mythical and timeless, and the corporeal, fractured, and contemporary. Their tension gives my work meaning and depth.

If you find something in these sounds that resonates with you, maybe it’s a sign you hear more than you’re willing to admit.

My worldview has been shaped by works and creators who explore the darkest corners of the human soul. Fyodor Dostoevsky, with Crime and Punishment and Memoirs from the House of the Dead — stories of guilt, conscience, and alienation. Roland Topor, whose The Tenant, Portrait of Suzanne, and Black Cows balance between absurdity and darkness, testing the limits of perception and reality. Albert Camus, with his existential explorations in The Plague and The Stranger — tales of rebellion against absurdity and loneliness. The music of Burzum, whose rawness and primal energy remain a constant source of inspiration. Equally important is the influence of The Cure — their sound and lyrics, often balancing between melancholy and despair, have strongly shaped my perception of music and the world.

I close with a quote that has become my mantra: “It doesn't matter if we all die.” It’s a reminder of life’s transience, the absurdity of existence, and that true value lies in what we create here and now, regardless of how brief this moment may be.