Ensconced on the love seat, a quixotic tinge of nostalgic memories sift through my conscious. I’m gripped with irascible feelings of regret and a dark cloud settles over me. A typical bout of dyspepsia. I woke too anxious this morning. The few rays shining in my direction were nothing more than a cruel luster of pollyanna still lingering from the ravenous exchange the night prior. As if the slightest quench of thirst were too much too ask, the inclination proved nothing more than an overzealous hope for some existential satisfaction, rendering another life experience totally meaningless. That’s the problem with being your own God, subject to none, dictator to all. The reality of your homage still stands abruptly in the face of your upward gaze. You’re nothing more and nothing less than flesh wherein you reside. Courting the imaginative lies is effortless, swallowing the deceit that bores its way into our beliefs, we no sooner discover, if insanity doesn’t find us first, that we are no more God than we think ourselves to be. The malignant disease of pride will be the cancer of our heart and eyes, numbing us of true satisfaction and blinding us to the narrow truths of life. Not till I became my own God did deprivation never feel so real and blindness so permanent. My strength, residing in the ability to continually coax fabricated realities into being, cannot save me from the human weakness that extends far beyond the feeble clutches the will bears to survive. My heart is black, tainted by the raging consumption of loneliness and confusion burning below, tormented by the thought of relinquishing control to anyone else but my ego. I shovel my grave when I fail to acknowledge where real law originates, constituting realities that need no eye to behold nor mind to conceive.