o loneliness! o Sisyphus!

To-day, I was consumed by a sense of loneliness, true loneliness. But loneliness has such a nature, grabbing hold of the victim’s neck and pressing with all her might. But her wickedness is such that upon making her victim believe that the end is near, that he shall return to the cradle of life, loneliness loosens her grip. He in turn, breathes in, his lungs aching and every breath of air that is inhaled, that brings bitter-sweet life, is not without physical duress. The moribund man places his hands around his neck affecting control of the self once more; but it is a myth, this mastery over the self is fictitious.

Thus, he is free but the scars are there, quiet reminders of loneliness and the hours that will separate the cycle of torture. No. Loneliness does not consume her victim at once. She likes to savor her victim’s miserable suffering. He will forget for a moment that he is sick before being reminded again that he is ill and again asphyxiating.

Defeating loneliness, her unrelenting savagery, is a Sisyphean task; the slaying of the dinosaurs is mere child’s play.

Every human being is Janus-sided. Duplicity is tantamount to truthfulness. Some of us are contaminated by the inchoate beliefs that accompany idealism, especially the sort that is sown within the heart and soul of those that are young. This is the idealism that subscribes to foolish notions as Socialism, Humanism, etc, an idealism that subscribes to anything that empowers man the individual and this is ony done by breaking the chains created by man the collective. Man must free himself and this idealism, utterly youthful and utterly foolish, rebels against those paragons of man’s genius (man the collective), e.g., God. So I am foolish and youthful and infected with the worst type of idealism. This iconoclast will then see how youth rapidly burns away, its heat remaining briefly before finally, extinguishing the iconoclast himself, i.e., me. And during this brevity, this respite, I shall find myself in a febrile state, resulting from the warmth that is released by the loss of youth, and I shall realize that those that I knew are already dead or galloping with ungodly speed towards the threshold of death. And in my fever, I will suffer most vividly as I will recall smells and sounds, distinguishable and powerful, setting my mind on fire.

But the warmth will finally fade and I will fade too. And no-one will remember that at one point I had been Ádriyk, slayer of dinosaurs. But it will not matter, for ambition is something left for fools with no talent.