Sycophant

I abhor sycophants. Probably because I make such a poor one. Should I judge parasitic organisms simply because I am such a failure at being what I am? Doesn't one loathe most what one is by rights? Do we all not strive above ourselves?

They make me feel dirty. And despite my slovenly appearance I am clean. So clean I shave .. everything. Flatulent flattery weighs me down like tar. I start to stick to everything and I can't move for the distasteful stench of it all. Mired in pits of black suffocating substance. It shackles my intentions, whether best or not. I can do without it.

By rights of who I am and what I am I should learn the art and thus feed myself. But I can't. It hits my stomach like ipecac and uncontrolled regurgitation ensues to the point I catch my bowls behind my teeth until bile stains them yellow. In other words. I don't like it much.

Appreciation is another thing entirely. Sometimes it is said with a look or a few words. It does not feed me but it does help to motivate me. Why? I am not sure. Perhaps it is a dysfunctional way of attempting to form my own identity. Something I seem to portray but rarely feel.

My head hurts. I would weep for the pain of it but it does not sate me. My eyes are swollen and bloated. The aegis turned to pressure against the liquid center. Everything is blurred and distorted. In my self absorption I am even more antisocial. Laconic. Torpid. Insipidly feverishly languid. I have nothing to offer and very little to give.

Except for a few coins to an innocent who needed a light in the darkness. I cared. Perhaps I am saved.

My head still hurts.