Status: Finito.
Confessions Of A Lust***
The Beginning (And The End)
A smug face is worth a million words. Arrogance is at once the most complex, confusing and consistently heartbreaking or heartmaking emotion known to man; the intricate spider's web of underlying insecurities too beautiful to break and too manic to comprehend. We have all drowned in another's arrogance before. Why have a submissive soul to possess eternally when one can have the most abrasive and detestable creature to despise? Seduction is a game. The harder to play, the better the win.
The self-important nonsense that dribbled from his poisonous, spinning lips was the most bittersweet honey that an egotist such as myself could be touched by. My hatred was so instant and eager that my ardent devotion was assured, self-destructive and futile as it would ever be, tears and a black, manic hysteria foretold in the first seconds that he ever passed his own opinion off as fact. It's an ingrained habit for him. Indeed, to love him would be dangerous and shattering, but a necessity it is all the same. Curtailing the frantic pulse that he evokes in my breast, fluttering timebomb-like in my ribcage, would prevent the fantastic fireworks that only an explosion of colossal egos can produce. Our story was de rigeur, the denouement secured before the opening was complete, and the glassy shards of my intent reflect, unknown to him, in the glittering of his eyes, subdued only by his bitterly vile streak that he had yet to unleash. One day, I would be exposed to the true extent of its horror.
The first argument brought a sanguine element to my lusty misery. Bloody words, murderous thoughts, carnal intents plagued our words. We were feral animals locked in a nuclear verbal destruction of reason, truth or dignity; a compromise was as likely as a surrender or defeat. Any white flag that could be waved was stained, smeared with the viscera of any victims who were audacious enough to attempt negotiation or splattered with gruesome stamps of hate in the search for vicious, warped glory. Brutal victory could only be the equivalent of an orgasm for one's ego, a sadistic delight in rendering the other pitilessly broken; beaten by lexis and bruised by reason. An evil perfection is attained in the attainting of an individual's spirit and argument. But, nonetheless, our words spar to the death, and only time can prevent a real throttling.
Time. Ten minutes. Long enough to want to simultaneously kiss and kill someone. Long enough to love and loathe. Long enough for the damage to my battered heart to be inflicted. There's always the next party.
The self-important nonsense that dribbled from his poisonous, spinning lips was the most bittersweet honey that an egotist such as myself could be touched by. My hatred was so instant and eager that my ardent devotion was assured, self-destructive and futile as it would ever be, tears and a black, manic hysteria foretold in the first seconds that he ever passed his own opinion off as fact. It's an ingrained habit for him. Indeed, to love him would be dangerous and shattering, but a necessity it is all the same. Curtailing the frantic pulse that he evokes in my breast, fluttering timebomb-like in my ribcage, would prevent the fantastic fireworks that only an explosion of colossal egos can produce. Our story was de rigeur, the denouement secured before the opening was complete, and the glassy shards of my intent reflect, unknown to him, in the glittering of his eyes, subdued only by his bitterly vile streak that he had yet to unleash. One day, I would be exposed to the true extent of its horror.
The first argument brought a sanguine element to my lusty misery. Bloody words, murderous thoughts, carnal intents plagued our words. We were feral animals locked in a nuclear verbal destruction of reason, truth or dignity; a compromise was as likely as a surrender or defeat. Any white flag that could be waved was stained, smeared with the viscera of any victims who were audacious enough to attempt negotiation or splattered with gruesome stamps of hate in the search for vicious, warped glory. Brutal victory could only be the equivalent of an orgasm for one's ego, a sadistic delight in rendering the other pitilessly broken; beaten by lexis and bruised by reason. An evil perfection is attained in the attainting of an individual's spirit and argument. But, nonetheless, our words spar to the death, and only time can prevent a real throttling.
Time. Ten minutes. Long enough to want to simultaneously kiss and kill someone. Long enough to love and loathe. Long enough for the damage to my battered heart to be inflicted. There's always the next party.
♠ ♠ ♠
I wrote this on the train back from Journalism Camp. I became so engrossed that I didn't even look out at the Thames when we went over the bridge, despite the fact that London is beautiful over the river, in the dark, at Christmas time. Big love for London.