Narcissists are love blind.
They off-handedly, absent-mindly and contemptuously discard the greatest assets a human being could ever aspire to or have. The dedicated few who love them, loyally, genuinely, dearly, profoundly, totally, and wholeheartedly.
But the ghosts, the ghosts of people passed, ephemeral and ethereal as they may be, weigh heavily. They threaten to suffocate.
There is a cacophony of disembodied voices, disparaging, lamenting, befuddled, haughty, contemptuous, childlike, terrorized. Terrorized.
Nothing is more stifling than the atmosphere abutting a decaying this putrefaction, the end of a life most thwarted. A sepia apparition that is a stuttering, pallid, intermittent version of its embound former self, its juiceless battery bleeding the acid of surrender into a lunar inner landscape. The gangrenous reeking of necrotic desolation, oozing apparent remorse.
The narcissist, as time passes, is more and more alone, shunned, abandoned, hated, and the narcissist disintegrates in slow but inexorable motion, a penumbral specter claiming counterfactual existence. Assaulted pillar, frozen and stultified, aghast the unfolding calamity of his or her own personal Sodom and Gomorrah.
And so it is time for soul searching. But how? How? When one has never had a soul? What to search for?
And so nostalgia sets in the sadness of what could have been and never will occur alternative histories wrong turns in a road not travel haunted by memories hunted by failures thwarted potentials fors promises, the narcissist is besieged.
The narcissist is not regretful or stricken by remorse, but wallowing in assiduous self-pity, consuming self-mourning, self-immolating grief distant echoes and the ramblings of the end long separated from his virulent insidious surreptitious life-threatening shame the narcissist his defenses crumbled is to confront it, this time multiplied and metastatic, fueled by decades of defeat and self-inflicted vitiation.
And worst are the images, beheaded faces afloat, disemboweled, decontextualized memories, sharp as knives, the aimlessness of it all.
Everything is ruined. There's no legacy. The eviscerating shards of opportunities missed and fantasies shattered.
And again the images, beheaded faces afloat, disemboweled, de contextualized memories, sharp as knives, the aimlessness, the aimlessness, the aimlessness of it all.
Deep space.
It is payback time for the pain and the hurt that the narcissist has caused. They catch up with him, like catapulted boomerangs.
And so the narcissist endures collapse, the dwindling of supplies. His or her old tricks no longer work. The superficial charm turns smarmy. The routines are boring, and the narcissist is rendered transparent and rejected as the loathsome, nasty and obnoxious person that he or she is.
Trying to capture this transformation, this transition into nothingness, I've written a few poems. Bear with me. Humour me.
The first poem is, Time has arrived. Time has arrived. Time has arrived. Time is here.
But the snow is great.
And you, bladed stalactite, shredded your loved ones, into ticket parade, confettied aftermath of distant glories.
Seek transit.
Now that you are melting, there is no one left to gather your holy water and to exercise the demons in the empty cave that you had become.
It is time already.
The next poem is fingerprints.
When you grow old, your fingerprints start fading.
The lines and horrors that make up your identity break down, disjointed.
You are rendered hard to tell to capture.
Safer to commit crimes with gloves off.
Or just to touch someone post-mortem with your blaring fingertips.
When you grow old, your fingertips start fading and the next one has to deal with the feeling of effervescence
Like a ghost I pass away imprinted in your lives, the minds and retinas of lovers strewn across my path, ephemeral.
In kingdoms where I once ruled invisible, a memory of slaughtered dreams and thwarted sunshines.
I wish to hold a hand across the time that sacks me, perchance the apparition of a smile, skin, flouting skin, the bonny chill of love-making in search of love.
I shall be no more, I know.
No one will carry me henceforth. Merely aspired, I am a dissipated recollection of an existence failed.
It is time to fade into the sunset.