🅶🅴🅽🅾🅲🅸🅳🅴 🄶🄰🅉🄰
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There's a frothing ferocity in my depression when it corrodes away the patina of the hunky-dory facade—the anesthetic of a disconnected mind. It's like the depression is a sort of short-circuit fuse wire from my brain to a grounding reality.
Amplified when I see the bubbles of irregularity and irrelevance, and apathy plastered wall to wall on LinkedIn, each iridescent frolic bubble cavorting in its own make-believe virtual halcyon, hiding the real life within. I see many use pseudonyms and avatars instead of portraits, even proxy locations, and yet, gleaming in the dullness of this pastiche fakery, these fraudsters are just like any other lowly lifeform. But I guess this is the new us, everything and everyone behind a mask playing back a ritual mime mimicry, which in turn spawns more contrived behavior until we don't know what the fuck anyone is talking about. A blindfolded idiotic spastic moving of parts so that someone gets an advantage out of it, and this when we can ill afford reality.
The universe doesn't need to crush the infinitesimally pointless plastic world and magnum opus of homo sapiens—distorted sensibilities, now almost a spineless invertebrate that has crowned a pernicious duplicitous character as a coveted permanent fixture. The people killed in Gaza, hidden or flagrantly in the open—it doesn't matter what you put before the horrendous word "genocide. ", it's still murder. It's a mindless slaughter. It's not right to get used to it, or we won't have anyone with us when we get slaughtered.
I remember when we were children, there was a puerile future mongering so that, with the knowledge invested in our sordid past, the wretched mistakes wouldn't be repeated. But here we are—retributive genocide, and more importantly unthinking amnesiac people. When the unthinkable becomes mundane and civilization comes to an end, the moral providence expires into the instinctual feckless tribal dance of the rabid ape that we are beneath the branded t-shirt and double entry book-keeping.
The ponderous and slow clockwork of counterbalance, once decimated, isn't easy to reconstruct. It matters little where we live—an Indian in India, an American in America—the crisis is personal because we are breathing the same air, and once the reigns of secular commonsense grow malignant tumors, there's nothing left to hope for. The leaders are spineless cowards. The void in voices makes me feel weak and throws me into my own haunting.
The Bengali girl fetching water from a pond is sort of affirming the human and cultural simplicity with which I grew up in this mad, selfish, and indifferent world. I no longer can identify myself as part of this new world, and it depresses me. No longer will she, if she was given life and allowed to climb out of the LinkedIn screens into the ludicrously hostile reality all of us inhabit.
