Poisoning the Well

It was poison. Yes, it was. That delicate thing preposterously dolled up into an amateurish veneer was nothing but a harmful lump of vomit-inducing crap. It would dizzy your senses and delude you into thinking that you were great, wonderful and awfully brilliant, but the harsh reality was that, you were a sore loser. Your vulnerable stance would just exacerbate it. And all the insensitive people around you would add more bitter insults to the irrevocable injury. You thought of it as a mighty thing worthy of your short-lived attention, and that it was as good as having a vanilla-chocolate sundae all messed up on your hands and mouth, but which was just fine, because the flavor was too deliciously decadent. You would laugh at how shallow the order of some things in life was, and at your back was a horde of uncouth shadows, casting aspersions upon your unwitting and pathetic soul for doing such a thing. The big surprises you had anticipated for so long, oh, they were all but fictitious fragments imbibed on your head.

As you mull these weighty tragedies over, your mortal body would just squirm in unbearable pain brought about by a substance foreign to your being. That substance was a debilitating poison meant to ruin the flawed logistics of your already ruined life. With all these bitterness and desperation, it was just as pointless as having a cessation in your physical motor, but it was just as stupidly moronic as having killed yourself for not getting even to those who wronged you. It was poison, you are pretty sure of that, and you were resolved to take the lion’s share in your own heroic story of defeat. And to make things straight, your foolproof plan of injecting that poison to those who were heavily involved would just do well. And it was too perfect.