The Discontent Butterfly

These days I am a constant hauler of monotony, frustration. I cannot speak, walk or even laugh without boring someone, turning stale, withering away in a trail of clichéd desperation, or performing my favorite art – I (we) call it cribbing. Ah art it is!

The familiarity of conscious despair is often back, but the dryness of my throat has lost all meaning. By itself the constant intonation of this world has not served to elevate me to any glorified pedestal of absolution. As I think about my problems more, and how little I have grown in the past few years, I feel indefinitely disgusted, rejected by myself.

I look at myself in this mirror of gross introspection and see a pathetic little caterpillar deluding itself into thinking melodrama and anguish more and more. This will transform it into a pretty but scared and discontent butterfly. Observe - I cannot even ridicule myself without resorting to hackneyed metaphors!

Platitudes, platitudes all of them. I fool myself into thinking I am anxious about my future, miserable about the way I live. I'm so good at lying to myself I have perfected the art of excuse, forgiving mortal sins against myself without the flinch of a stomach muscle, deliberately sabotaging some of the (potentially) better negotiations in my life.

Am I really that hopelessly self-destructive, or do I just like the attention? I do not know.
It feels as if the desert wind has already sucked my life clean of energy, passion and even dreams.