Self Pity
And he stood amongst the droplets of conversation, surrounded by people who smile but who are never happy, very much like himself. He had tried. Tried hard. For years he defied and denied that which was so easy to give into. Yes, that potent poison of the senses, the destroyer of the soul. Self Pity was its name. And it soon became his game. He used it to sanctify, all wrong, justify like a song. Sung by one but with no meaning at all. And he let it consume him, for he was tired. Tired of being the rebel with a cause few cared about. Tired of being the honest, good man he was. For goodness and honesty do not pay, nor do they pave the way for glory, fortune and fame. So he turned. Flipped the coin to indulge in what was like cheap wine. The opiate to dilate the truth and satiate the body but never the soul. And thus began the chase. For money, sex and fame. Oh what fun to act like a teenager again, to rebel against all that kept him sane. O it was so good but wait. What was that tug, that stirring, that little voice, his conscience, struggling yet refusing to give in. Refusing to allow insanity to flourish, his soul to diminish. No. He was reminded, when at his weakest, he yielded to those who honestly gave a toss, for whom to see him like this was personal loss. Oh the pain they endured as they watched this beautiful, broken soul struggle with his own demons and refuse any form of salvation. In vain, they tossed lifelines but no, he refused to see that which he already knew. And the more he ran away from the truth, for his soul he cannot escape, it knows its master and its mate, the more it drummed into his head. Until he could not deny it anymore. For to admit wrong and defeat is the nemesis of all whose pride takes precedence over sense. Yet he could not anymore for inadvertently he was destroying his very soul. Always the Alpha now turning to Omega.
But no, fate ain’t that cruel for there’s a God above if nothing else and that God hears the prayers of the faithful who fervently want him to be happy. Genuinely happy. Not a some façade, not some farcical parade. But true happiness of the soul.
And so this spoilt, beautiful, broken and amazingly fucked up individual finally conceded. He picked and plucked at the strings which were like resonances of his heartstrings. So beautiful that it just flowed from his soul through his fingertips and onto the strings. Ah what bliss, for the master and the mate were united at last.
