Thursday, July 12, 2012

His Excuses

If he gets rid of his bad habits, he gets rid of his excuses.

This is the fear that induces a septic shock in his subhuman psyche. If he removes all ways to deny full culpability, if he rescinds the pathetic attempts at diverting blame to the conveniently possessed ways of blurring his common sense, then there's nothing to divide him from the unconscionable, egregious acts he spurs into life time and time and time again, and the asshole committing them.

So, he clings to the sickly sentiments of romanticized views of drug abuse, alcoholism, sexual manipulation - these are all coy games he muddles around like a panhandler with a pea and three walnut shells; it's a game, it's a game, it's a game, he giggles in his head, his face blank and devoid of expression or love. His cheap ways of making himself feel better he now knows are merely ways of making others feel worse, and so not even the long friends long-dormant can revive this easy exorcism of the spectre of guilt malingering in his myopic misery.

He wonders if he does all this in some sick corroboration between the limbic system and his unconscious motives, or if he just lets himself tumble face-first into these ludicrous, winsome scenarios where he can merely plead plausible deniability. But then, he realizes - consciously or unconsciously, the end result is still the same.

The wretch still becomes he, and it doesn't matter - excuses or not - drunk or sober - blind with rage or paralyzed by grief - it doesn't matter how much he understands what he did wrong - it's only the last three words that matter: HE DID WRONG.

So he murmured to his sedated self, and said to his dated self...I DID WRONG.