Pretexts

People living without purpose. Empty ends chasing nothing.

They crave pockets overflowing with money, feeding their hunger for a prefabricated status.

And still they ask — where have we arrived, where are we headed? Dreams forged, packaged, and sold. They no longer breathe, no longer feel their bodies tremble with life.

Their curiosity about others’ misfortune isn’t born from empathy — it’s a rotten need, a sickness in their self-destructive souls.

They feel better knowing you’ve fallen. Worms.

I feel sick even speaking about them. They are incapable of admitting that some escape the small cages they call right and wrong. They refuse to recognize true superiority in others.

I admire my own gifts. I honor the qualities that make me extraordinary. Pride in yourself is not arrogance — it is confidence, and proof of your worth.

If birds did not know they could fly, they would never dare throw themselves from the cliffs. 


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