The Absence of Quality

I despise the absence of quality. The recurrence of similar episodes. The previous idea awaiting a paraphrase, and that's it. Nothing to come out of it but a statement of presence and maybe the feigned satisfaction of imaginary accomplishment. And maybe, just maybe, what is done is hailed as evolutionary, revolutionary, innovative and whatnot, but it's just a fucking paraphrase.

I love myself. I admire what I'm doing. I think that I'm better than a lot of people, and I acknowledge that I have no right to such whatsoever, but I actually do. I take the smallest of accomplishments, the minutest overcoming of hardship, and magnify it in my head as a landmark of many sorts. Again, I have no right. I'm kidding myself.

I do not recognize my shortcomings. A blatant failure, to me, is automatically translated into a courageous escapade into the impossible and the impossible just caught up. Simple as that.

I'm not complimenting myself.

There are a lot of "I"s in this piece.

There is no ending to this piece. It will be left hanging. It's the same as the rest. A recurrence of similar episodes, lacking quality and a para-phrasal of previous ideas.

I'm tormented by the thought of abrupt ends. He's absent, and that's just excruciating, or an excuse to do whatever I want. The relativity of morality. Haha, haha. Or maybe I should be grateful for the law of mankind.

I want to write. And yet it's just a statement of presence which results in a feigned satisfaction of this imaginary accomplishment. Yes, I accomplish random writing vomits, and I am actually proud, for maybe this, one day, may be called evolutionary or revolutionary or even innovative prose. For are there worthy synonyms to Him but the creators of poems, the litterateurs of universe?

"I loved a pretty one, 

O how I desire to be his shadow."

Fuck domestic, societal, communal, traditional pressure. 

Fuck being realistic.

Fuck being oblivious to destruction.

Yes, sit in your Dewania, play a useless card game and do nothing whatsoever in your life except the action of inserting sustenance into your body keeping you alive for another day of uselessness. Fuck your inaction. 

Yes, be a factor of the damning pressures of society, but do nothing to actually better it. 

Yes, sit comfortable and complain, like I'm doing right here. Be a peach. A rotten apple. 

Let them clothe you, feed you, bury you. Let them move you right and left and stay as the puppet that you are. 

Okay. I think I went overboard. This took too long, and I thought of many things throughout. And quality is certainly an absentee.