Self loathing Stories

He was at the end of his tether. It was ten years since his last big exhibition, and the commissions had dried up two years ago. That was when his wife left him for that mountebank ********* who couldn’t draw his way out of a paper bag, but somehow managed to paint the sort of rubbish that the market wanted. Probably for corporate boardrooms for people with no discernment and execrable tastes. He wasn’t short of the where...

A poet wrote, “parting is such sweet sorrow.” A cloying sentiment, for the fading of love spawns bitter fruit, and better death than to awake the morrow. Though the fruit of love’s dawning seems so sweet, the joy of its consummation is but brief, and rapture turns too soon to anguished grief, for the pleasure of love is but a deceit. The promises of amorous desire, and endless bliss in paradise, are false, and fruit that...