Sophisticated lies

Ten past eleven. The last hour as I would call it. How boring it seems to me. Or rather – how uninteresting. I never thought that as I grew out of childhood, the nearer my birthdays would be, the less enthusiastic I’d grow. I don’t feel as if I’m growing old and I don’t particularly care. My current life is under a heavy cloud of indifference and boredom. Perhaps, with a chance of ironic rain from time to time, but nothing spectacular.

I can never quite understand other people. Nor do I like them. Sure, they make an interesting study and I am still far too selfish not to want to help them. In fact, I should admit to never completely understanding myself. I often find myself questioning my own moods – are they really mine or am I just mirroring someone else? It confuses me a great deal.

To one conclusion I have come for sure: there is something of a chameleon in the human nature, or else, how would I be able to conform myself to such a multitude of situations? Nevertheless, I am a shallow being, I know that. The only thing I am afraid of is that others should discover this as well. They have yet to see through my coloured lies. They think of me as good on the inside when I am only cruel on the outside. Who is to blame for this? It’s a matter of common fault, I should say.

I have come to realize I do nothing for myself anymore. It is strange because at the same time, I do nothing for the others. I just meaninglessly continue to exist, strolling through a park of sophisticated nothings. Is this the true emptiness of the soul’s resignation? Although I wish to wake up, I am not chasing after the answer. I remain floating, floating over an abyss of dullness and shadows.