The delitescent waste of a pathetic specimen

 

Narcissism, is not the organic translation of the individual's endowment, to a sufficing protein of self, just as the rudimentary efficiency of the rustic commerce, is not an immideate leisure of voluminous scale. It is a disease, of secondary aptitude, that ensues from the selfishness of undesignated dysfunction, a desperate guage of intimacy without an account of its currency. One must not simply say, it is a preoccupation of the self, as this limits the agent of fallibility, to a naive calibre of admiration. There is a much more, crude partnership with the author of uncompromising, self-agregated, vileness without the condition of responsibility and rapport. The casual censures, the prejudicial judgement, the very dehumanization of the counterpart, assigned to the pedigree of false superiority, and yet all is in vain of sustenance. The misery of the narcissist, in the monotonous exploit of vulnerability, the projected shadows of mayhem, which ruthlessly persist in unspoken soliloquies, remains vital to the decadence of the self. Perhaps the misfortune of this deplorable being, is not the childish folly of condescending initiative or the aggrandizing delusion of self-importance and immeasurable privilege. Rather, it may be the unsolicited, myopic desperation, to be worshiped, for the most casual competence of existence.