Faded trophies

He looked up at the roof.
The mattress was strewn with his used clothes, the bedsheet which doubled up as his blanket lay crumbled at the edge. The fallen hair of his girlfriend that speckled the floor fluttered in the air spewed by the fan.
'I hate myself'.
'He who is a slave to his temptations is a weak man. His resolve is merely a fake visage that melts in the fire of a
temptuous desire'.
Races where he trumped others, elocutions where he outspoke the rest, examinations where he scored above the class - his ego had pumped him to win them all. He looked and smiled at the many trophies that lay behind the books, their colour faded and
inscriptions illegible.
'Symbols of a eulogized past and an idolized self'.
'If trophies were given to those who mastered their senses, I would be a pauper. But this world pits one man against the other
and the one who masters this tussle comes out the winner, the champion, the idol'.
'Who is greater - the one who wins the race against the rest or the one who wins the race against the self?'
'I am helpless'.
He grabbed the beer bottle and gulped in the bitter tonic - he could feel his nerves cringing. He closed the open browser in his
laptop, the porn stars were dressing up.