Knowing the Narcissist : The Asylum of the Grotesque : Sarah

As the season shifted from the warm embrace of summer to the crisp coolness of autumn, a picturesque countryside scene unfolded.  The vibrant mélange of orange, red, and yellow hues painted a captivating panorama against the backdrop of the rolling hills and stretching fields.

 

Leaves, like tiny artists’ brushes, delicately coated each tree, adorning them in a palette of fiery shades. As the wind danced through the branches, the vibrant foliage rustled, releasing a symphony of subtle whispers. It is as if nature itself sought to express its elegance, capturing the essence of the changing seasons.

 

Sunlight, soft and golden, bathed the landscape, illuminating the canvas with a warm, ethereal glow. With each passing day, the intensity of the light subtly diminished, casting long shadows that slowly stretched their slender fingers across the earth. The slow descent of the sun painted an ever-changing portrait, creating a kaleidoscope of shadows and highlights.

 

The countryside, once adorned with blooming flowers and lush greens, embraced a different kind of beauty in autumn. Fields that were once carpets of emerald transformed into tapestries of earthy tones. Stalks of grass, now ripened and golden, swayed gently in the wind, adding a rustic charm to the scene.

 

. The air radiated a pleasant crispness, carrying with it the subtle scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The symphony of sounds from summer was gradually replaced by a more subdued chorus: the distant chatter of migrating birds, the fluttering of wings, and the soft scurrying of animals preparing for the approaching winter.

 

 

Nearby a solitary apple tree stood adorned with red and green baubles, its branches heavy with fruit. It was, many years ago a place that Sarah and I would often walk to and then sit or lie beneath its canopy, a blanket beneath us and sometimes a blanket over Sarah if the winter chill was beginning to make its presence felt more readily. Sarah loved being in the countryside and autumn was her favourite season.

 

One afternoon as I sat, my back against the trunk of the tree and Sarah lay draped across me, she looked out across the fields and copses and said, almost dreamily,

 

“Imagine all of this with no humans, all gone or never existed.”

“Easily done,” I said with a conclusive tone. I felt Sarah flinch.

“ You don´t like people really do you?” she asked.

“ No.”

She sat up now, pulling a blanket about her shoulders as if my words had chilled her rather than the autumnal air.

“Why? Why do you not like people?” she asked. Her eyes appeared filled with sorrow. Was she sorry for my disdain for humans?

“You know, I often picture myself regarding the sorry plight of humanity from a vantage point, perched on a gnarled, obsidian throne, I witness the feeble existence of these flawed creatures who walk upon the earthly plane.

 

Humans, with their frail bodies and boundless desires, are a ripe source of both amusement and frustration for one such as I. They scurry about, driven by their insatiable hunger for power, pleasure, and purpose. Their lives caught in a perpetual struggle, teetering between the heights of joyous triumph and the depths of devastating defeat.

 

What truly astounds me is their unrelenting capacity for self-destruction. Like moths drawn to a flickering flame, they willingly plunge themselves into the abyss, deceived by their own delusions of grandeur and the false promises of their desires. They trade the purity of their souls for fleeting moments of gratification, ignorant of the inevitable debts that accumulate upon their ledger.

 

Humans are but slaves to their own desires. Their insatiable cravings shape their reality, molding their very existence into mere puppets of banality and shallow pursuits. They are possessed by a moral vacuum, their consciences clouded by the ceaseless pursuit of pleasure, power, and self-interest..

 

In their pursuit of power, humans become consumed by ambition. Driven by an insatiable thirst for authority and control, they unleash their most savage and ruthless instincts. They grasp desperately at the reins of dominion, lusting after the intoxicating elixir of influence. Mindless of the consequences, they trample upon one another, oblivious to the ruination they bring upon their fellow kindred souls.

 

Their lust for pleasure is equally confounding. They immerse themselves in decadence, seeking solace in the ecstatic possession of material treasures. Intoxicated by the seductive allure of worldly pleasures, they recklessly indulge in a ceaseless pursuit of fleeting delights, becoming entangled in the web of their own desires. Yet, they remain consummate imposters in their pursuit of the permanence that forever eludes them.

 

And what is it that drives this mortal pursuit, you may ask? A desire to satiate their insatiable longing for purpose. That is what distinguishes me from them, I know my purpose, but they are always seeking a meaning in life, a sign, a purpose. Humans are perpetually wandering souls, lost within the labyrinth of their own minds, grasping for meaning amidst the chaos and uncertainty of their ephemerality. They dance upon the stage of existence, actors in a cosmic play without a script, yearning for significance beyond their mere dust-born origins.

 

Even their shallowness is a curious marvel. They judge and are judged by the superficiality of appearances, hiding their true essence behind masks of societal acceptance. Driven by an insidious need for validation, they become enmeshed within a tapestry of deception, subverting their authenticity in a desperate hope to be seen and acknowledged by their fellow misguided humans.

 

And yet, within all of this, mess, there exists the humans’ capacity to love and to believe. Their capacity for boundless compassion, selfless acts of kindness, and undying loyalty sits at such odds with their mindless wandering.

 

Though their mortal journey is riddled with folly and missteps, they have the audacity to hope, to persist even amidst the darkest shadows of despair. Their indomitable spirit lends them a unique paradox , casting ethereal light upon their otherwise unremarkable existence. It amuses me, this unwavering belief in something more, something transcendent, as if their mortal shackles inexplicably connect them to a higher power.

 

Humans are a mosaic of paradoxes, an elaborate tapestry of contradictions which makes them all the more entertaining notwithstanding their foolishness.”

 

Sarah sighed. It was not, I think, a sigh of frustration or despair, but rather one of acknowledgement.

 

“I know, but that is what makes us so beautiful and I include you in that, HG,” she replied as she lay against me again.

 

I snorted but let the matter lie there on this late September afternoon, there would be time enough to revisit this miscategorisation of me. Time enough.