“People think it’s easy…”

People think it’s easy being a narcissist, but, there’s a lot more time involved than you’d think — I mean, every day, there are people’s dreams to belittle, and their pains and griefs to dismiss — meanwhile, keeping up a constant flow about just how unfair life is to me. Some of you couldn’t last five minutes having to be a real narcissist; under the pressure, you’d break down and start caring about other people in no time.

Human lives are imperfect: in fact, they are markedly so. Yet, whatever perfection there is in each, or any, of our lives, it is characterized by our adding to the world’s often meager store of truth, or goodness, or beauty; or, perhaps, just not ruining true, good or beautiful things when we happen to find them.


I’ve read that anxiety is what lingers after the actual stressful situations or circumstances have gone; however, given what modern life is, I’m having a hard time imagining when that would be. Life is unpredictably expensive, for example, and that stress hangs over us throughout all our days.


Entering for the first time, we saw a room, big and new, that smelled of newness and spare furniture; its most conspicuous feature was a series of brightly colored tiles covering most of the back wall. These followed no pattern my eyes could make out, but I was fascinated by them: it was as though, even then, my heart knew that art itself resides in the stories we imagine as much or more as any story explicitly told.

First Glass

Don’t tell him it’s not possible.

He drank his first glass while watching the sun go down over the bayou, enjoying the warm air and the sounds of reggae music.

When she arrived, minutes later, he realized, instantly, that it is possible for something perfect to become even more perfect.