There you standโor rather, slouchโlike a ruin that never had the dignity to be whole. I write to you not out of anger, for anger would imply that you are worthy of such heat. No, I write from a place colder than indifference, a place where even contempt seems too charitable.
Do you know what you are? No, I doubt it. Self-awareness has never been your strong suit. You move through life as a dim-witted marionette, strings pulled by whatever base impulse strikes you at the moment.. greed, vanity, the need to be seen, though never truly known. How comical it is, how pitiful, that someone so empty could be so loud.
You, with your grand delusions, your imagined superiority, strutting like a peacock through a world that barely notices you. You mistake tolerance for admiration, politeness for respect. And I? I see through you, see the brittle thing that shakes inside your skin. How fragile you are, how desperately you clutch at the illusion of significance.
But let me tell you what you truly are : an unfinished thought, a smudged line in an otherwise perfect script. You are a noise, not a voice. You are the interruption, the cough in the middle of a symphony. People do not listen to you; they endure you.
And yet, in your own mind, you are grand, are you not? How tragic. You, the emperor of a kingdom made of dust, ruling over nothing but the echoes of your own self-importance. Tell me, when you look in the mirror, does the mask ever slip? Do you ever see the hollowness staring back? Or have you lied to yourself so thoroughly that even you believe it now?
There is a cruelty in the way life toys with people like you. It allows you the illusion of worth, lets you play your pitiful games, lets you preen only to strip it all away when you are at your most deluded. And when that moment comes, oh, how I will savor it. Not out of spite, but out of the simple pleasure of watching justice unfold.
You are already fading, already shrinking in the minds of those who once humored you. One day, you will call out and no one will answer. You will speak and the silence will press down like a weight. That, I think, will be the moment you finally understand.
And when that day comes, when you stand before the truth of yourself, you will remember these words. And you will know.. I was right
With the coldest
A witness to your pathetic little tragedy
Do you know what you are? No, I doubt it. Self-awareness has never been your strong suit. You move through life as a dim-witted marionette, strings pulled by whatever base impulse strikes you at the moment.. greed, vanity, the need to be seen, though never truly known. How comical it is, how pitiful, that someone so empty could be so loud.
You, with your grand delusions, your imagined superiority, strutting like a peacock through a world that barely notices you. You mistake tolerance for admiration, politeness for respect. And I? I see through you, see the brittle thing that shakes inside your skin. How fragile you are, how desperately you clutch at the illusion of significance.
But let me tell you what you truly are : an unfinished thought, a smudged line in an otherwise perfect script. You are a noise, not a voice. You are the interruption, the cough in the middle of a symphony. People do not listen to you; they endure you.
And yet, in your own mind, you are grand, are you not? How tragic. You, the emperor of a kingdom made of dust, ruling over nothing but the echoes of your own self-importance. Tell me, when you look in the mirror, does the mask ever slip? Do you ever see the hollowness staring back? Or have you lied to yourself so thoroughly that even you believe it now?
There is a cruelty in the way life toys with people like you. It allows you the illusion of worth, lets you play your pitiful games, lets you preen only to strip it all away when you are at your most deluded. And when that moment comes, oh, how I will savor it. Not out of spite, but out of the simple pleasure of watching justice unfold.
You are already fading, already shrinking in the minds of those who once humored you. One day, you will call out and no one will answer. You will speak and the silence will press down like a weight. That, I think, will be the moment you finally understand.
And when that day comes, when you stand before the truth of yourself, you will remember these words. And you will know.. I was right
With the coldest
A witness to your pathetic little tragedy
