#bitterpost

I was pursued.

 It wasn’t the first time I was treated special but the creature was an angel, and I am but a human who seeks higher heavenly involvement. Who am I to resist a blessing from above, or so, I thought. It was too late when I grasped that pure evil can really appear deceivingly divine.

 I let myself down and blamed me for falling prey. Indeed, wickedness comes from all sorts of places, often ones you wouldn’t expect. Nonetheless, no matter who tries to teach you lessons about life, you won’t understand it until you have to go through it on your own. Narc, would always have a distinct place in me for altering how I view people and what I think of life overall.

 There are two sides to every story. I would like to give you my side by sharing all the wonderful things about Narc in the hope that one day, you’ll find this helpful as well as entertaining.

Narc enjoys others’ misfortune.

It doesn’t matter if it caused it or not, awful things happening to you are instant gratification. In fact, when Narc feels down, your misfortune is all that can help Narc feel better.

Narc is a control freak.

Narc feels absolutely uncomfortable and incapable if not in control of its life and yours as well. The goal of Narc is to control the way you feel on the inside, not how you feel on the outside.

Narc is an expert liar.

Narc is a top-of-the-line pathological liar. Narc will lie so much that its lies are what form its reality. If caught in a lie, Narc will try to play with your mind and question your own sanity. (gaslighting)

 Narc is remorseless.

Sorry, not sorry. If you press them on the fact that they are unrepentant, they’ll ricochet: push it off on to you. Admission of fault would shatter Narc’s image that it has masterfully refined.

Narc has zero sense of responsibility.

Narc will do as it pleases and will never feel responsible for the pain it has inflicted on you. It is always you who is to blame. Narc has no sort of a moral compass.

Narc leads a double life.

Saying Narc leads a double life is a considerable understatement. Narc is who it will ever need to be to get what it wants. Narc has a well-devised history and image that it’s trying to portray.

I was told that Narc is like a boomerang. It will find its way back to me no matter how hard I throw it out of my life. I guess it’s true, but only if I let it.

Finally,

Narc will come in another form to seek revenge.

 It is not in Narc’s credence to be forbearing especially when its covers are revealed

A crime blotter and a news report are prowling in the World Wide Web about Narc.

Finding this sort of connection somehow feels very easy to attain but rather difficult to keep up with. At times, also easily misunderstood. How would you even know if there would be meaning far beyond what is on the surface when everything happens in the same way until suddenly something or someone snaps and changes?

When would one find that they want something more than what's there? When would one find that is truly was what they want? If they found out that they did not like the outcome, would they even speak up when things go south from the getgo?

How would they pick up the pieces they've left if they do leave? Would they take responsibility of the damage or would they just leave to have the other pick up the pieces?

You were a blank page. You were a page I would have wanted to skip over in a flash but couldn't. I had been much too used to ignoring almost everyone around me that I passed you for a person I would have to deal with 5 times a week. You had been a page I had to come across at and pass as nothing 8 hours a week.

But then like all blank pages, you had been filled out. Most of the time by obligation... but not without doodles and scribbles you write on the corners of the pages. You had become the light-hearted scribbles on my paper. You turned out to be the temporary happiness on a routinary day.

Time passed, and the light-hearted strokes seeped past its boundaries, coursing through to the center, adding flourishes to what once was another boring page.

You were a page in my sketch book. Thick, weighty, smooth to the touch, created and used for a purpose. You were a page I would mull over and concentrate on for hours. You were (are) a page meant for something colorful and beautiful, a sight in the making. Simple gray hues were no longer enough. Before I knew it, you had become more than a page.

You were a book. Your cover enticing me to read through. Your pages I'd caress, feeling for its gentle leaves over and over. You were my escape from loneliness; from the reality I was once very accustomed to. It felt like I was blessed with a new perspective. You made me believe that even a detached person like I could belong to a fantasy.

But then just like every other book, all stories has its end. I would leaf through each and every intricate page, never wanting to go back to my reality but I always end up staring into the final page. This final page leering, commanding me once and for all close the book. "This is not your story. You aren't the protagonist. This is not your life," it says.