A Return to the Surreal II

All the opportunities that I once thought I had have now evanesced. So I sit here, sitting inside this foreign object called a body. I am trying desperately to hold onto something as it decays all around me. I watch as the consequences of my decisions rot the beautiful empire that I have tried to build. I am growing ugly. I am growing old. There are lumps of fat in places where I would not like to see them. The hair keeps growing every day, and, with it, the occasional bumps of uncared for skin. My earthly vessel, the jar into which I have put my soul, the thing that houses the self, it is crumbling. And it was never quite what I wanted it to be. It was never the perfect object of youth and vigor that I wanted it to be. And, now, I know that it never will be. The future only holds the bile of a failing liver and the decrepit, knocked down house, littered and pock marked and unpleasant for everyone who sees. 

I wonder if with age, all dreams eventually disappear. If they all float off into the sky like the fast smoke of cigarettes and sweet smiles and sipping on drinks in parties, here for a moment, and tomorrow just a memory of things that used to be better. 

Perhaps physical beauty isn’t the ne plus ultra of the human experience. And maybe I shouldn’t have gambled my entire existence on being able to sustain this paradigm of attractiveness and seduction.