Imagine That

Maybe I am writing this for myself as much as I am writing this for you.

You called us old souls, but darling, I am practically a vampire. Unlike you, I am plagued by immortality and having such a youthful face rarely helps. You with your problems you cannot seem to get over appears adolescent to me, and I no longer have the stomach for youth and its petty grievances. Only loneliness likes to play the dark-suited gentleman and turn up every now and then, make me feel the evils of my age by smoking on my doorstep.

You might argue that vampires have all the time in the world – yes we do, but you don’t have all the time in the world, mon amour, and that makes me nervous. Also you deny any kind of help from me and wish to be alone. It is hard accepting that I am of very little importance to you and therefore there’s very little that you are willing to give up for me. You even admitted wholeheartedly that you’ve done nothing for me except drag me down into the bogs. You’ve admitted to selfishness unconsciously yet without abashedness!

Old age has its arrogance, no doubt, and I can only sit back and laugh without mirth at your insolence and inhospitality towards any other thing that is not yourself. You have your ego plugged in and you’re tripping with self-pity. Sound in: white noise, sound out: white noise.

Perhaps my appetite would like a taste of moon and leave its rind in the sky.

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