And yet again, here we are. The moments of calm have subsided and we are again being bullied by the currents which pull us into rapids against the shore break. I beg for reprieve, push my lungs to grasp for air where there is none, and instead feel water swell between its layers. It’s a piercing pain and I am prisoner to its constraint.

I find more and more that this cycle of despair is hauntingly prevalent within our day to days. Those with whom I seek community, those with whom I share intimate moments, and even those with whom my interactions are in passing, I sense the eerie presence of subtle desperation. We chuckle them away, with never a full belly laugh of confidence to support, but instead with acceptance as a fated consequence of our realities. Is there anything sincere about this pain? The undertone weaving through the sentiments of our collective clothing is a thread of depression; a hinderance which clings onto our consciousness like a cliff note to our experiences. There must be more to this state than one can cover in a medium so frivolous; but I will say this: I no longer believe in our social pariahs. They feed us mundanity and routine and expect a standing ovation. But the tout of our collective society is, ironically, not for sale. You cannot buy our lingerence as much as you pretend to convince us it is up for grabs.

But herd mentality is hard to come by, and herd immunity even more so.

Weighed down by wishful thinking, paralyzed by opportunity, we are of a society so over indexed by the possibility of life, we have resorted to being shown the grandiose of what is possible rather than achieving a standard of our own. They sell to us the tools of such a life: the clothes, the art, the music. All to convince us that we are shaping ourselves as modes of expression and independence. But what we produce in such exercise are, but perfect images of what they ask of us. Are we not suspicious then? Why do we walk out of the stories of culture, primed for another chapter? Predestined and prewritten, we are teed up like updates of a software, coded into an algorithm and utterly predictable. I question the sincerity of our touches, the pulled away glances, and the interactions of our masses.

This is an overstated cry for help.

We already know, but it’s difficult to discern. For happiness comes at a fleeting cost of awareness, it is force fed and yet grasped at. For when the water fills our lungs, crying for help is deprioritized. Instead, we buy a lifejacket and watch a Youtube video on how to use it. We may even find ourselves at a point so deep we watch videos on how the lifejacket got made and forget to use it all together.

//

“The borderline of your personality is paranoia.”