From Illogicopedia
(Redirected from Depressed)
Jump to navigation Jump to search

What's the point? We all sit here on a giant lump of rock thundering around the universe at thousands of kilometers per hour, as a negligable speck amidst an endless black, a vast nothingness. We squander what little time we have busying ourselves with the mundane, doomed to be forgotten come the imminent day of our inevitable death. We all try our best to leave a mark, to make that tiny difference, but the second we shut our eyes and depart to the beyond, our place will be filled by another drone, another poor soul who will work hard to be lost amid the plague to this planet that our race is fast becoming. I think this is a valuable observation: You're reminiscing on fun and exciting things that happened, wondering how it was possible that such things even occured.... Hey, baby, you know I’m just another anonymous cog in the machine, guaranteed to pass through this world without so much as a mention in a footnote on a lesser page of the big book of existence. But if I could know I was truly cared for by even one person, I could perhaps die in relative happiness, rationalizing the whole charade as a tiny-but-meaningful iamb of cosmic poetry. The woman who packs my lunches ain’t really up to the job, if you get me! Aw, don’t walk away mad, sweetheart! Not mad at me, anyway. Better to curse the blind idiot god who has stranded us here on a tiny, hopeless speck of dust lost in an impossibly vast and unfathomably dark void, constantly aware of the unstoppable passage of time. Hmm, good morning... today I will experience longing for a better life that I don’t actually believe I deserve to have... Guys, I'm really having a hard time lately. Depression comes in many shades: a smoky, deepening sadness, the indigo before twilight unboxes her stars. Deep pretentious METAPHORS on a satirical wikipedia parody. A thinner sorrow, like the rags of old banana trees, the fluttering garments of sea-ghosts. There is even a soft, slow melancholy that intersects with happiness, a sad happiness, drifting like a jellyfish, distant-yet-there like an echoing Joy Division song. It has lasted for other reasons; its portrayal of the undiscriminating suddenness of depression, the way the gray can descend without warning, remains important. The gray sands may never fully leave those of us it swirls around—but if we can escape long enough, we can learn to rework its memory into vivid, vital, astonishing ar


See also[edit | edit source]