A portrait

Sometimes he felt so shallow, so predictable and rather dull.

He wasn´t stupid, yet he behaved like a veritable fool at times.

He was afraid of his own inner power. Of his artistic talent. Of his real life.

He would do everything to conceal and suppress his passion.
Always kept a due distance to his emotions. To his manhood.
To everything in fact.

He was kind of indifferent to his own person.

Secretly he nurtured a kind of twisted satisfaction demeaning and
constantly disqualifying himself. As if he was asking to be punished…

I told him most earnestly what I thought about him and his escaping mechanisms. 

He would be listening, nodding as if hearing and understanding,
yet never allowing my words to really sink into him…

Constant resistance. To himself and to any genuine contact.

Almost deliberately, he was always trying to chat up cold and narcissistic
girls who would only dismiss him. He claimed he wanted a relation, yet he
didn´t realize that he would never enable a real woman to reach him.

He prefered to lead a lonely, anonymous and depressing existence,
have no real life, than taking the risk of plunging into self-discovery.