Conceit

A month gone. Tempus does not fugit in my world; it creeps more laggardly than a snail. Futilely I awake each morn expecting this day to be different. By nightfall disappointment, once again, has crushed me.

The same ponderous questions haunt me. I have parsed each phrase, scrutinized every word. Now pride cloaks me more surely than armor, for after every tedious analysis, the conclusion is the same. An immoderate, risky proffer was tendered and declined.

I rarely act without considerable forethought. This was no reckless iniquity spurted out in the heat of the moment. It was a sensible, practical solution that was repulsed ab initio. A priceless favor deemed shabby. Men would kill for less.

Despite the persuasive counsel of my confidante, I am sure that a profession of emotion is not the remedy. I bear enough scars from that course. I shall give no one that supreme power, despite the tantalizing aspect. Perhaps her alternative suggestion is right, but my haughty pride demands that I reject that theory. It is the covert aspiration that has always eluded me. It is preferable to lick the wound of conceit then to dwell on foolish dreams.



I'll run in the rain till I'm breathless
When I'm breathless I'll run till I drop, hey
The thoughts of a fool's kind of careless
I'm just a fool waiting on the wrong block

From Fool in the Rain by John Paul Jones/Jimmy Page/Robert Plant
(c) 1979 Flames of Albion Music Inc./Warner Chappell Music Ltd.