A
funny thing, time.
It's
been days, but it all seems like ages, centuries, like whole galaxies
would have perished and born during. In a little microcosmos that
might even be the case.
It's
not that I don't appreciate the unconscious side-effect you've
caused. You've brought me to my knees, you've made me surrender,
you've made the lion, the dragon, the ego fall. You've crashed it to
bits and I needed that, for the swollen, hurt pride I've harboured
pumped it up like flesh does the rats. Maybe you've prevented a
plague. Maybe you've made me impregnable.
But
you did anger me, you did make me yearn and crave, you managed to get
me envy you and you fueled my pride born of harm and worst of all –
you made me ignorant.
Ignorant
to the beauty that kept surrounding me, ignorant to love and warmth
of the fellows, ignorant to the blessing of the highest living,
ignorant to wishes once granted a lifetime, ignorant to the new, to
the clear, and to the mind.
Angry,
for you've acted out of character. Your hypocrisy burned into my
brain and began eating it away with flames so killingly, so
blindingly fiery. You've done what I've been learning not to ever do,
and you've done it seemingly without any immediate retaliation.
You've been sneaky, cowardly, and childish.
I
craved you for I've seen myself in you. Remember that one sentence I
whispered that cought you so off-guard? I've seen the pain in your
eyes, you pulsated the past that you could never escape, only
temporarily forget in a chemical flush of night from time to time.
You've suffered, but for what? You haven't learned. I did. And back
then, I was so sure that you did, too. Or maybe it's just my lunatic
of a heart speaking and I've never felt anything like that. Still, I
did crave you, I yearned to wrap myself in your skin, to bathe in
your flesh and be sung to by your blood. And as we kissed, I almost
did believe I believed.
I
envied you for I'm told we're alike. In strange ways, that's true,
but how to find someone with whom we aren't? You were like the
physically enhanced version of the already known self, the ego
incarnate, without the mind, only the wished, and hoped, and craved.
Only the looks. Only the material. Mere wrapping paper I'd love to be
covered in.
And
you've worked my pride, for its roots in my heart are all feeding on
hurt. The thorns, built up by all I've known and lost, loved and grew
to hate, cut deep and let rivers of ego-boosting self-pity flow. The
seeds sprung and here I am, proud of my suffering, proud of my faults
and ignorance, proud of all the wrong I've done and caused.
So
when it comes down to it all, it seems to me that nothing has
changed. Youmay have broken the all-powerful ego on one side, but
you've fueled it right upon the other. You are of no use to me, it
seems.
A
sad thing, solitude can be.
