I grow weary. So very weary. Moreso with each passing hour of each prolonged day. Where once I stood in strength, I find that my stance falters, and my drive wanes. I lose a bit more of myself with each knowing thought, and soon there will be naught left. My abilities seem to diminish with each use. And where once I held pride at my disconnection, I instead find a twisted abomination tainted by perverse desires. They claim my thoughts, and rule my actions. I cannot think anymore, without harkoning an enfeebled attempt at grasping realities that simply cannot and should not exist. A drive of unsavory thoughts directs my heart, and a dissonance between my morality and thirsts thunders with increasing ferocity amidst each moment lost.
How long will I be able to maintain my faltering control, before it teeters and I am irrevocably thrust into a pit of despair with no viable escape? How long before I make a move or issue an utterance that will forever be enscorcelled in a memory of disdain and justified malice? I’ve not but myself to blame for this predicament, as it was naught but I that allowed these perversions foothold in both my conscious and subconscious. It was I that not only allowed their sowing, but encouraged their flourishing abundance and magnitude. Where I should have rent them from the fertile fields of my mind as mere notions, I instead allowed for propagation and increased utilization. But even in knowing that, I won’t implant countermeasures. Nay, not won’t, but cannot. The familiarity and comfort provided by these rogue elements proves too strong an allure, and I indeniably find refuge in their shameful dalliances. As with any addiction, I’ve grown accustomed to and dependent upon the release I achieve from them. Such a damnable release, though! Where I invariably find peace and comfort, even if only in the interim, I am after left with naught but longing and idolization in its absence. Fanciful thoughts of abhorrent realities, and demented boughts of brief euphoria lend occlusion to the revulsion I should know with each entertained whim. Yet hides it well, they do. Even now, I remit that I shall indulge here-after. And while I’ll enjoy the detachment from reality, I’ll be weighed heavily by the guilt after.