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Journal for NadaudJournal for Nadaud
They say that dead men tell no tales. A man who is dead only on the inside can still talk, but his lips utter stories of tears shed and heartbreaks many. I am always seeing couples as I am out in public, and honestly, I always look at the man and wonder why the woman is with him and not me. I must be garbage, dead and stinking refuse on the inside, though I am physically attractive. That is what I tell myself, and I know that I am the only person who loves me deeply. I have fallen in love with myself, for I have no other person to fall in love with. I do not care that I may be evil; I am very intelligent. I do not care that I am obviously a narcissist and that I am contradictory; I may be pretty ugly, but I am also hideously beautiful. But each night I have to fall asleep alone, and those walls come crashing down like ramparts of tears. And deep inside, and on bad nights, close to my surface, I wish that the dead inside me would leave my soul and take my body, so that I may leave this putrid world and stop delaying the inevitable passing of a monster who never wanted to be one.
Dark times are made darker with the bitter feel of loneliness and the salty taste of tears. It is that no soul seems to hear my words and truly care that rends my heart, and my heart is reaching its end. Will this young man who seeks perfection ever find love in its pure form? Perhaps love in pure form is extinct, wrongly relegated to the past in this age when the only thing more shallow than a person is the depth of their smartphone. Perhaps my kind is going extinct, soon to be displayed in a museum, for I dream of bygone days when a woman and a man needed love and only love. If that is so, then I will accept my fate as I watch the shallow people play with their phones and text their "lovers." But I still hope that someday I will find a woman who believes that the greatest gift is love, even if I sometimes do not believe that myself.
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