Success became my identity, my entire being entwined with the relentless pursuit of more. Wealth, power, recognition–all within my grasp, all fuelling the insatiable fire of my ambition. But as the months passed, something began to gnaw at the edges of my mind, a creeping disquiet that I couldn’t shake.

I was surrounded by people yet felt utterly alone, trapped in a game that had lost its thrill. The faces around me became masks, the laughter hollow, the victories empty.

My relationship with Mr. Worthington grew strained, his once encouraging gaze now filled with a cold scrutiny. He saw through me, saw the smallness, the pettiness.

“You’re boring,” he said to me one day, with disdain. “Nothing you do makes any sense”.

I scoffed at his words, unable to admit any weakness, any flaw. I was right; I was justified in my actions. I was above others, above judgment.

But the seed of doubt was planted, and it began to fester, poisoning my mind with uncertainty, paranoia. I found myself questioning everything, doubting everyone. I was spiralling, losing control, and the world was slipping through my fingers.

My interactions with people became erratic, my decisions impulsive. Friends turned their backs; allies withdrew support; family was nowhere to be seen. The very foundation of my empire began to crumble, and I was powerless to stop it.

I sought solace in my old haunts, the galleries, the streets I once walked with confidence. But the charm was gone, the magic lost. I was a shadow of my former self, haunted by my own ambition.

My sense of time became slippery, and my mind unraveled, consumed by an obsession with a magic formula, a solution that would restore everything, bring back the power, the glory, the control. I became reclusive, withdrawn, a madman scribbling equations, doodles, nonsensical words.

The world moved on, indifferent to my downfall, and I was left alone, trapped in a self-inflicted nightmare.

My studio became a sanctuary of madness, filled with papers, books, scattered thoughts. The Small Man was gone, replaced by a tormented soul, endlessly seeking answers, endlessly failing.

Mr. Worthington visited me one last time, his eyes filled with understanding.

“You’ve lost your mind,” he said, his voice soft, almost compassionate.

I was left alone, endlessly scribbling the same doodle, trying to unravel the formula for a magic potion or some kind of insight that could bring me back from the dead.

I used to be the Small Man, oblivious to my own tragedy, now lost in madness, a prisoner of my own making.

I remained, a forgotten relic of ambition, a cautionary tale of greed.

In the end, I was not above others. I was not bigger. I was small, broken, and utterly lost.

I remained, trapped in my jumbled mind, for many years, a tragic figure endlessly seeking what could never be found.