Dear Brothers

I once saw myself as a world historical individual – fated to be a world historical individual.  I think now on whether I’ll die alone.  I wonder how the change happened – I really do.  I thought all the stars were aligned for me to be something great.  I thought to myself before, whether a little bit of megalomania might not be a good thing as well.

But it wasn’t exactly conceit.

I used to say as well… and I suppose it’s still a quite voice at times that… “the story’s not out on me yet,” and that I could still change, accomplish things, and achieve produce something great.

It’s so damn hard to move myself sometimes though… to action.  Indolence reigns.  Lethargy rules the day.  I’m caught in my own delusions, turning over half-baked plans and building castles in Spain.

So dear brothers, let me spin another tail.

Could I tell you that I used to…

No… I suppose I couldn’t.  I don’t want to be a victim.  I don’t want pity, or sympathy.  But… if I could tell you about myself, somewhat… who I am.

Enervated.  I feel a little enervated, and I can only think about cunt really, the universal heilmittel to rouse me from this slumber, to bring me out of doldrums and out of the grey, into… something… a brief reprieve… intense narcotization.

I miss my drugs sometimes.  I wonder if I could cross the line and tell you I’m a sinner.  Of course I’m not really, just in some circles… just in the most banal and fearful… among the Gutmenschen and the well intentioned guardians who secure a better tomorrow.  Shield your eyes or behold… Ecce Monstrum… the old, tired, slowly-creeping-into-middle-age old man… forlorn… who takes his pleasures silently, with a whimper and a faint smile all at the same time…

 

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