Mephistopheles Regrets
I do not presume myself to be above the machination of souls. Emotions are an art, and I a steadfast painter. Bodies are often controlled not by mere anatomy alone, but by oft unseen forces which beguile and array themselves in dismal melancholy. But I, dear reader, have spent the gross years of my life devoted thoroughly to these neglected mystic arts, the perusal of which have granted me unerring mastery o’er creatures too reckless to notice. This is my truest crime, my most fatal of flaws; the unrelenting pursuit of connection all for the dreadful hope of being liked, truly liked and adored. But for all my study of others, I’ve yet to find one scholar who knows me as truly. What a terrible thrill that is, to have crafted a façade so enduring that not even I can chisel it away. Oh muse, oh me, oh dearest souls that I call friends, forgive me for my arrogance and love me anyway, for no one else will.
Do you think Mephistopheles regrets?
smlfries 