I have this deep feeling of depression somewhere below the pit of my stomach. Okay, let’s start by deconstructing the very concept of a pit of the stomach: what I really mean is that I feel like there’s a small anvil sitting in the bottom of my stomach, connected to the rest of my body by veins and arteries and such, and it’s pulsing and molten, and with each pulse the juices flowing around the bottom collect dread in the form of runoff.
The ocean is the same as my stomach. A few years ago, I heard a story about underwater waterfalls and lakes, where the salinity is so high that the water flows as its own entity, free of the lighterweight water above. Suddenly I wonder if the entire planet is soaking up dread the same way I am, feeling the dread that comes with knowledge.
I’m a twentieth-century person: I know that now. I like twentieth-century things. Record players, television, physical media, old movies, old clothes, long-dead actors and actresses that should be household names and aren’t. And I realize that my century was a perennially shitty one; filled with war, depression, disease, oppression–and that this century is shaping up to be more of the same. But there’s a cruelty now that wasn’t present before–a cruelty in even the most well-meaning people, as they pile on to every cause in a low-stakes competition between right and wrong that erupts into an empty orgasm of self-righteousness before putting its clothes back on and leaving the room without a word.
I don’t know what the answer is. I want this thing to work, I’m terrified that it won’t, that the earth, overcome with the physical burden of billions of people in the cloud will continue its long melt, trying to wipe its surfaces clean.
So, shit. How do I resolve this?