CONFLICT IS THE SORDID SMOKE I BREATHE:
Praying To The Voiceless God I Have Made Myself To Be:
Enraged, befouled, disturbed, I am not to be believed, or pitied, or even understood. I am of embittered temperment, a flawed and disputable expression: a liar and a fraud. I am ill at ease, convinced of my own superiority, deceived by my own dillusions, enslaved by my own haughtiness and pride.
I wish for greatness, but have only fear; I long for recognition, but have only mediocrity; I desire independence, but I am stiffled; I know only pain. I worship at the broken shrine of my own making, praying to the voiceless god I have made myself to be; proclaiming my own resurrection and immortality.
I desire power, but fail myself to respect authority. I thrive on confrontation; conflict is the sordid smoke I breathe; I am not satisfied without the victory, without the trophy I deserve. I despise him, and his creativity, his gift which I shall never have, his gentleness, his confidence. I hate everything that makes him better than I am.
I am so pathetic, insecure, and hopelessly alone; I cannot speak, my hands are bound, by the fear that I am nothing, no one, nowhere -- by worry, hate, indecisiveness and doubt.
Enraged, befouled, disturbed, I am not to be believed, or pitied, or even understood. I am of embittered temperment, a flawed and disputable expression: a liar and a fraud. I am ill at ease, convinced of my own superiority, deceived by my own dillusions, enslaved by my own haughtiness and pride.
I wish for greatness, but have only fear; I long for recognition, but have only mediocrity; I desire independence, but I am stiffled; I know only pain. I worship at the broken shrine of my own making, praying to the voiceless god I have made myself to be; proclaiming my own resurrection and immortality.
I desire power, but fail myself to respect authority. I thrive on confrontation; conflict is the sordid smoke I breathe; I am not satisfied without the victory, without the trophy I deserve. I despise him, and his creativity, his gift which I shall never have, his gentleness, his confidence. I hate everything that makes him better than I am.
I am so pathetic, insecure, and hopelessly alone; I cannot speak, my hands are bound, by the fear that I am nothing, no one, nowhere -- by worry, hate, indecisiveness and doubt.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Saturday, April 08, 2006
1 Comments:
I readily admit that I may not have been entirely at peace with myself, or my successive placement within our seemingly apathetic universe, at the specific point when which I first did pen these most sour, and quite disheartening, lines of foolish prose.
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