The Journal Entry of a Narcissist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: November 19, 2016

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Submitted: November 19, 2016

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I am here now, in the midst of this cheerful crowd, dwarfed by the collective shadow that they cast over me.

In the darkness of this shadow I stand, alone and clothed, yet the chill still finds a way to creep in and wrap itself around my bones.

In the darkness of this shadow I am away from the crowd, but I hear their voices still, louder than I did when I walked alongside them. I hear the laughter of the happy and the mad, the cries of the lonely and the sad, a male voice that all females fall head over heels for, and then I am reminded of my own incompetence. What qualities can I offer these girls? How can I even be on the same level as this man who always knows what chords to play on the guitar? I try to sing, but my voice is trapped inside my larynx, does not find a way out. I try to smile, but when I smile I do so wholeheartedly, I invest all my emotions and good intentions into that one smile, so that afterward I am weary and tired. And there's no one around to see me smile anyways.

So I will try another approach, for I know that I lack the discipline to train my voice or learn the guitar. And this is what will happen then: from the depths of society's looming shadow they will hear my screams. They will hear me plead for only a hint of female touch, but since my body is masked by the darkness of the same shadow, they will not know where I am. The silent response following my cries will bring to mind the existence of a much deeper wound, a wound inflicted by a twisted sense of narcissism that usurped my soul long ago. It still remains the main dominating force that controls my will, dictates my every move, this warped sense of morality that some friends mistake for selflessness. But there is nothing selfless in wanting to make people smile, for in the end it only serves to make me feel good about myself. Being kind is not a virtue but a vice if the end goal is to make yourself feel good about what you did. It all comes back to me, like it always has. Perhaps women see this false sense of superiority and it pushes them away. That is why they will continue to leave me alone, and instead the shadow under the canopy of which I reside will only grow larger in size. What will loneliness then do to a narcissist? The answer alludes me. In fact, I doubt that I have ever known it to begin with. What do I know of this wretched future, whose threat of failure haunts every single step I take in the present?

So I let it be. I roam in this shadow land, away from society but close enough to witness them traverse the whole spectrum of human emotions. I, too, feel those emotions, curled up alone in my own corner. When the threat of future makes the present intolerable, and when the oppressive silence stifles one's screams, the only course of action is to find comfort in death. Perhaps death will open doors that otherwise would have remained closed, undiscovered. Thus I learn to embrace my demise. I begin to stumble around in the shadows looking for a sharp object to cut myself with. I feel then the cold touch of a blade and smile. What do I need the uncertain caress of a female when I am certain that the blade will never betray me? All I need is to find the right vein, hold the blade at the proper angle, and make the fatal cut. I close my eyes and imagine the warm liquid covering my wrists, the essence of my being then slowly finding a way to exit the body, and perhaps through the slit, all the poisonous thoughts whose clear nature I was unsure about will find an escape too. Soon I will become a shell, hollow and blissful, and not a single being will find my body lying in the shadows. Women will be much happier knowing that a weak man such as myself no longer roams the planes of existence, and...ah, I made it about myself again, didn't I?! No matter much I try, it seems rather impossible to escape the self.

Some may say that these are the words of a coward, and they would indeed be in the right. Others might feel pity at first, but then come to the decision that I was not made for this life from the get-go. They would reach the conclusion that suicide is perhaps the right choice for a man who can't strum the guitar, whose voice is not golden, whose looks don't cause girls to swoon over him, whose hands shake every time he tries to pick up the pen, whose inability to appreciate all the good things in life makes him a loser in the eyes of others; perhaps suicide is the right choice for a man with shaky confidence.

No one will even notice, for I never contributed much to my surroundings anyway. My fleeting memory will fade away. Those who always knew me will forget. All the longings will stop. Lust will loosen its grasp on my soul. And in the end, everything will work itself out, but only if I am brave enough to make the final cut.

Suddenly, I hear an echo. I drop the blade. I do not know whence the echo came, so I look around searching for the source. And then I forget all about death, for if there is one person out there who still calls my name, then I can hang on. Thus I choose to stay. The hope of hearing that voice once more keeps me standing on my feet, even if my knees tremble at times and lead to my inevitable fall.

Perhaps one day I will grow tired of all the walking and wandering, but for now, I will keep my ears pricked up lest I miss the female voice calling my name. And in the darkness I stumble into others who roam this plane, looking for someone to call their names. I take with me the knowledge that I am not alone here, even if I cannot see those who walk beside me. I find comfort in these realizations. I walk. I stop. I smile.

And I wait, for another echo to call my name.

And the blade lies on the ground, abandoned, for now.


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