I am truly weary. Drearily I face a reality governed by damned disciples. I see no individual amongst their number, for in being the same they believe to be undividable. I perceive not comfort but a hazy image of lazy perfection.
Observe their saunter. Look past their swagger. See the prejudice they woven through their heels, and know the fuel it feeds to each and every tortured step. I did that to them with my vile nature, because of course we did, you didn’t even know.
I hate the me inside them. The you that you hide within those you see. The you that lets you be better than me. I convince myself I know. We lie and say it’s all a show. You pretend to not hate yourself simply for being them too, and I’ll persist on despising you for not being me.
bunjoman 