Style No. 84: Depressed

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Like life itself, this stairway spirals ever down toward an insouciant bed of thorns. Yay for existence.

Like life itself, this stairway spirals ever down toward an insouciant bed of thorns. Yay for existence.

I see a child uselessly reaching out to the cold world, vocalizing his despair through a cheap plastic tool forged in a toxic factory by an enslaved proletariat. He wears an orange t-shirt as though to say: the universe sees me. And yet the universe isn’t bothered one way or the other. It doesn’t care.

He has a friend — if you can call such an untrustworthy boy by that name — whose arm is wrapped around him, giving the false impression that if they were being chased by a tiger he wouldn’t trip his so-called companion at his earliest convenience and sprint up a tree to watch him become cat food. He observes the crowd of people uselessly milling about in the distance.

An old lady, the only one appropriately distressed by the simple fact of being alive, passes by. She wears an elaborate headdress concealing an object in her hair. Lord knows how she found the energy to rig it up, or why she bothered. No point in keeping  secrets. No point in anything at all.

At the same time, a glum fellow behind them averted his eyes as though to indicate that he knew — existence is gratuitous, there is no meaning, we are simply marking time, which is itself a thing that doesn’t ultimately exist. Alas, we are nothing. Yay for being alive.

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