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waxing bummer.

what is a depression? what is the reality of feeling bad, or those repercussions that radiate from the essence of being depressed? The typically uncaring and indifferent pass by these sad specimen all the time in as bustling an urban landscrape as the one in which I seem to inhabit. the attentions of any one person are mild and passive unless the circumstances provoke completely different responses. such attempts at unwarranted attention are activities like car wrecks and any place cop cars are likely flash their bells and whistles. the streets are rife with all kinds of intolerable entities as well as the downtrodden, and it is these creatures that one should have an eye for, using and abusing another’s misfortune. insinuating themselves to such a degree that their presence is purely parasitic for practical survival. attaching their soul-sucking grip onto the unlucky fool that falls prey to the twisted saga of a bold campaign to remove all things precious in exchange for puerile moments. passions do not entirely replace that energy lost for dealing with these particular beasts, especially if important ideas and expressions have been weathered away by the loss, and then only through the negative and negating demands of the organic portal. creativity is blocked in the vapid pursuit of endless “fun”. what kind of sick thrills knocks a person out of the depressed state? maybe endless fun is only for the select few while the rest of us are carrying the burden of defending what pitiful lives we have. endlessly tired of the trend where we absolutely need to keep up with every useless affectation no matter how controversial or diminutive the detail. the massive bulk of human meat spends long hours staring into blank space on purpose. but is there anything to be seen there in that hapless void? maybe a stare into something that lies buried inside the mists of memory, but these can only be theories until proven guilty by the revealed truth. something that might take years to make it as a reality to every living soul. it seems that only the poets and romantics are prone to thinking out-of-context with the rest of the united world around us. imperceptible motives that lie deeper than those surface facial twitches that make a good majority of social interactions. reading another person’s bodily remarks like reading tea leaves, but there is no future in doing that, people never quite fit into those snug categories we would otherwise like to store them into. saving the worst for last, suicide gets the better of a lot of us, and others of us would just rather have a ball painting the ceiling red. messes are left for the real individuals out there to clean up. the higher-ups eat the faces of those less worthy to stand up against them, with lines of bullshit in tow, and the ways to make people think that they are being listened to. really, people just wait to take turns when speaking, and their minds are never far from changing the topic.

Thanks, khet.