/lit/ - Literature

Sordid little creature.

Parody of man. Not eliciting laughter of any kind, but horrifying silence.
Wake up, grab your phone, inject a fresh vial of shit directly into your eyes; the preferred method of combating the malaise of independent thought.

Reject self-reflection, or else risk remenbering the depraved, wretched being you have allowed yourself to become.
Mute the remnants of your conscience, the uncomfortable truth that if you had the balls to hear, might lead you towards a better tomorrow.

There it is, bright colors, outrageous stories told by an automaton who's got about the same autonomy as you do.
A little man that keeps on running across train tracks, grabbing coins.
Family guy funny moments a hundred-thirty-five.

Within this bombardment of all your senses, you find peace.

Monks temper their wills through silence.
This human shaped embarassment will consume all sorts of exciting things until it feels nothing anymore.

The neutering of the human soul.

Welcome to the modern man.

Well, no more. I refuse to watch one more video of a clip of south park right above a set of gums collecting, washing and polishing teeth.

I set out to paint a picture of my discontent, the reason of my insomnia.

I read the words, reread them, once, thrice.
I hate them.
I hate my lack of talent, I hate how I've got nothing interesting to say.

When I least expected it, I am no longer faced by my own words on my screen, but by a video of technicolor sand being stacked up and sliced.
Just when did that happen?
My lizard brain could not deal with the pain of my own self-deprecation, and was beaconed by the siren song of this goddammned garbage that I'm embarassed to admit I'm addicted to.

And it is at this moment, that a single thought pops up in my mind:
Maybe that funny looking fella in the shades wasn't so crazy after all.

>PSST hey kid

>>17852616