Prisoner To Product

Pointless Overthinking

Drawing by Adrian Serghie

Provided by Cyril Joseph from Narrative Of The Restless

I do not have their best interests at heart, neither do I yours or my own. If I did, this would be a narrative of love and hope, or a narrative that would let you revel in the matrix. And I wouldn’t be the messenger of everything bleak, killing your dreams of buying happiness from conglomerates and governments, as promised by advertisements and propaganda.

Here they are, selling you on societies built on genocide and slavery, hooking you on brands of culture, spirituality and lifestyle, trading superficial order for your compliance. Corporations and administrations controlling the market, restricting and influencing your choices, turning you into docile consumers that seek completion in their products. A whole generation profiled based on brand consumption. This isn’t just me rebelliously seething, this is our wretched reality governed by the very forces…

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and waiting … am i going to get help around here? or should i die already?

last week i returned to the doctor my mother visits, our results were in. her’s i rather not say beyond that she, unfortunately, has an autoimmune disease that’s been the mystery to so much of her misery.

i, as it turns out, am somewhat infested with two types of bacteria. i have pills for that.

secondly, he confirmed that i indeed have both significant depression and anxiety (as he diagnosed on my first time there). i was given a pill for that too, but it’s like to fall asleep and help with the anxiety.

he’s in high demand, our doc. we had to wait three fucking hours to see him. my first visit prepared me, however, and i had three books, my coloured pencils, a light sweater and my diary stuffed in my rucksack.

at at our turn, i was beyond tired. it had taken us roughly three hours to get to his bloody clinic alone. at the end of his extrapolation of results, he gave us our respective pills and made recommendations.

we, mum and meself, waited to hear what he had to say on my depression. he didn’t even ask how i was, if things have been getting worse or not.

“Have you been doing the yoga and meditation?” was all he asked.

“The meditation, yes. I find it helps.”

“Keep it up, every day.”

and that was it man.

maybe i was supposed say more, but before i shook myself to say “i’ve been thinking of offing myself every day now “, or

“i can feel myself dying one loss of joy at a time, every minute shaves some of me off on the floor “, or

Short fiction: Sunk

The buttons that hit the polished floor clacked like candy-glazed hale. The kind of thing that would spill from a child’s sticky fingers, strung loosely together by unsuppressed giggles.

Now, there was only silence. Not even he breathed.

Certainly not the corpse at his feet. Her last breath had exited on a scream.

He bent and lifted a single round button, it had a small anchor finely etched in gold. He remembered it clearly. He pocketed it and made for the window.

One more on his account. Repulsion that clawed at him at the beginning of this mess receded into a low itchy hum. It was there right at the back of his brain.

There would be a reckoning. He remembered them all, every soul.

As he should.

He was a numbers man through and through.

Prompt via Write World