I ascertained the inextricable link between me and my anguish. I understood that nothing can ever change this bond, for it is part of me as well as it exists only through me. We are nothing than beings subjected to external perils, so why would a intrinsic hindrance preclude us from going on? I cannot avoid being indolent, exhibiting hubris, for my supercilious nature requires me to nourish it incessantly. I am unique notwithstanding the prosaic things which relate me to others. Dare you not to offend my ego by pretending to know better than me how common my arrogance is; for it compares with nothing else and it shall never be replicated. How fool must be he who acts like a sycophant, whilst resembling nothing else than an epitome of stupidity. Why should I include these truculent observation in my sermon? Indeed, I dare to call my meaningless introspection a sermon, for it shall be listened to attentively; not one of you can afford to exonerate me from being guilty, due to the fact that I am under no circumstances able to plead innocent. It is said that there is no rest for the wicked, and I can pertain to this assessment since I find no peace. My arrogance stems from my hatred, orientated towards myself especially, let alone the whole world. Perhaps I cannot express a countenance of sorrow only because I stopped caring a long ago; Machiavelli said that the best rulers are those who pretend to have all the good qualities whilst lacking most of them. How could I consider my indifference anything else than a propensity to be a leader? I have tried to act like a good human being recently, since I put an end to my self-deleterious acts a while ago. How sure I am now that everything was nothing more than theater! How sure I am now that nothing good lies inside of me! I am not one of us, I shall not ever dare to call myself again ordinary! For I am unique, as long as I maintain my self-destructive attitude, as long as I keep making errors whilst acting as if i were flawless, as if i were perfect! Do not dare to tamper with my delusions of grandeur, for I am conscious of them but I do not have any intention to see them perished. Instead, i will nourish them, i will endeavor to make them better, i will dismantle my possible penchant for improving my condition. I shall remain doomed, for i will never achieve serenity elsewhere than in my wicked conscience. There is neither salvation for me, nor any wish to find it.
“I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.” – Arthur Rimbaud, “A season in hell”