Glamour is a Lie

The attractions of the planet have failed to entice me and its fascinations hold a woefully poor potential. My desires are alienated from this world and I roam as a restless nomad to accept my sore, bizarre fate.

What is Earth if not a habitation of agony ridden with disconcerting influences? I mourn at the declaration of my existence and crumble now I tread this terrestrial edifice awash with sickening, punishing futilities.

I’m undoubtedly in the midst of charm, settled in settings studded with classic masterpieces. The globe is famed for picturesque views and idyllic scenery. The mountains are majestic high-rises of dust and the oceans are mammoth waterbodies.

The stardom of celebrity is of inconceivable scope and the pleasure of jostling, swarming paparazzi is sure to stroke a popular ego. Therefore the lusts of iconic global stars are only known for a sprawling, skyrocketing rise.

Eminence is the gold standard and the culture circulating among the top elites. Wealth does more than glaze the eyes; it features you at society’s coveted peak. So the rich harness their cash flows, and the masses scramble and hanker for currency.

Society is steeped in the habit of materialism therefore the landscapes have degenerated to a dog-eat-dog arena. The bliss we thought was ours has become a figment of the imagination and the security we clutched to has long absconded.

Satisfaction is elusive and the appetites of men never truly arrive at a sense of contentment. Mortals harbour a burgeoning desire for the stylish articles of the earth and their covetousness is wild, insatiable and carelessly unbridled.

So true delight is certainly a figurative expression and to hold substance is to cling senselessly onto a nonentity. I walk the earth a sojourner as all my fathers were and my lot has no place in these ephemeral spaces.

My soul is startled in the company of narcissistic persons who relish the portion of falsehood and are puffed up with an overweening pride. Their loyalty is pledged to the vain show of a depreciating planet and trickery has since bought them over.

I’ll permit the hands of the grave to snatch me out of this hollow, dirt-strewn fabrication, taking me through a delightful transition. For the thrills that preside on this side of a solitary sun are commodities of futility where glamour is a lie.

© Valentine Nnebe 2025

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