A Lot of Flowery Words in Failed Justification of Being a Tramp and Sentimenal Narcissist
I hold within me an irrational drive to immolation, to love with abandon and ferver of such white hot intensity that I am disintegrated in its rapture. This need has made me fickle and capricious at times, what can even be conceived as cruel. I have neglected the earnest embers of warm, familiar hearths to spark at tissue paper and underbrush, to burn bright and hot and brief and mourn in the cold ashes of once-beautiful homes and barren fields. This is not merely a behavior that I inflict upon the world but a demon that possesses this corpse and makes a mockery of lives lived too hard to reach maturity, snuffed with too much oxygen, and brittle with carbonization and burnt out lust. I demand unfairly a love that can only see its own glow in the reflection of eachothers eyes, a love that dares not blink for fear of losing its heat to the forgetful night, a love that cannot possibly be sustained with all the fuel of a lifetime, let alone one split between so many lives. My love spits on the rational and dessicates the practical realities of life. It is warm, but it is harsh and dry and defiant and stubborn and selfish and I am it. I have burned everything I have touched save that which is too cool and damp to devour to dissatisfied conclusion. I can apologize, and have done so, to those I have scarred in my impulse, but I cannot stop. I cannot be stopped. These flames lick through bars and chains and fences,and render locks and hinges devoid of framing, for they hunger for an impossible satiation, as do I, and will die without that fevered struggle, as will I. I hold within me an irrational drive, and it is the heart that regretfully keeps me alive.
