The Sorrow of a Man Who Has it All


I am a very conceited man. I write only when I need to flush my sorrow out. To a man who looks at me today, in a moment when he cannot see my eyes, everything would look bright and beautiful. Indeed it is. As beautiful as it can be. And I daresay, as perfect as perfect can be. That is where it all starts to go wrong. That is where I need to make something go wrong.
Deliberately eating up all the chocolates I have so I can be sick, so I can enjoy the feeling of having a lot of chocolates, I skid often into an anxious territory, where fighting with, against, and for myself are the only means of survival. I love this territory, for this land is fecund, and it breeds words. I don’t love this place because it makes me happy, or sad, or any silly one-word emotion. I love this place because here I can, and have to, talk to myself, and words love me here.
I am hardly an honest person, and this admission does nothing to upstage that claim. I lie often, and to myself even. These lies regularly exceed my own brilliance, perhaps it’s the rebuttal of my unconscious I keep pestering into the daylight ever so often.
This isn’t even a coherent piece of writing. This is written with sorrow, but not with effort. Not a single person would like it. I apologise to the foolish few who are still reading.
I hope I can sleep. I am tired. I. . .

One comment

  1. Aah! You most definitely are a conceited man. But you’re not just the one. It’s good to let your deepest emotions out in the open – no matter what people think. Coming from the wrong person it is – but for the first time I came across a random blog and felt like it’s me talking.

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