On Addiction

I do not require external approbation or judgement, for in this precarious state of mind reason has been extirpated. The brain subjection to uninterrupted repetitions remains inmutable. I cannot operate beyond. I am a devotional contemplator of my own ruination, a massacred pantheon whose sacredness is being profaned. Sandy remnants of columns and arcades may solace ancient nostalgia; now these pillars, which once sustained triumphs, can vaguely reproduce the individual I was. My temper trembles while my nerves revolve. My uneven fingertips lost their original form. I infest so my beliefs with conformity, a state as vicious as the sneaky, sloppy sounds which shape a whisper. I wean from outer exigencies, dwelling in this self-interested barn. 

       Your esteem resents lack of firmness or resolution. Unlamented your soul will be, while sailing across the Styx, if you declare not your apprehensions. This intruding mishap conceals itself from clarity and does not dissipate urban, foggy hesitations. You might ponder on the vexed amount of time which is superseded by indifference, yet that habit, although cyclical and apparently introspective, succumbs before a tolerated, global unregeneracy. 

     Thus we find no identity, only fallacious selves of servitude. A confiscation of thought embellished by the calamity of excessive hedonism. The triviality of impersonal pictures through which peevish yet attentive audience is engendered. Those colourful bells which evoke no healing sound: 

      dopamine stimuli.

     Then, reification of vain success in that manikin grin. Virtuous is not the man of this age; past epochs also suffered samelike opprobriums, yet the omission of our integrity produces no indignation but approval. Personas conveniently disguised to please each other, the squalid contentment of mediocrity. We can’t embrace our shadows in this neon-illuminated circus.