Notes from an Incipient Misanthrope (Stage I)

Confessions

"Sometimes I wake up early and even my soul is wet"

                                                                       -Pablo Neruda

-Grief is a product of idleness and isolation- a combination that I failed often to solve/escape.

-I've been :

• a patriot but inactive citizen,
•  an affectionate but distant sibling,
• a jovial but remote friend,
•  passionate but lost love;
• dull with brightness,
• unkind to beauty,
• an egoist to laughter , 
• with power, passive.

I have been everything that I thought I would never be.

-Was It I who suffered ,suffering in style the illusion of change, the poison of hope?

I shall give in to the image I see reflected in the cruel eyes when I look at you with an innocent desire to be spared the indignity of rejection. I give in, I give up.

'too soon',  you say.

You did not live my life, living helplessly each moment snowballing into years and decades reasserting the crack between the mind and the soul - having to see the wreckage of the bliss that you knew existed within you, one speck at a time.

-Sometimes tears seem so irrelevant. The cause too perverse. The soul drips with the tears I don't care to shed anymore.


-I am a cynic, an indifferent realist, I am all that you would care to define me as, for I have failed. I have failed my definition of myself.