there are many degrees and flavors to desperation, as there are to any human emotion. in every language alternate incarnations of this so apt of words fill gaps left by our incomplete understandings of ourselves; ennui, telling of quiet fading desperation, decanted over decades, alongside it's cousin, addiction, illustrate one such example. however, the word itself speaks such volumes that everyone able to comprehend verbal language attributes to it a certain scenario, wrought by experience or description. where, though is this scenario kept in our minds, when it is not called forth by images, words or even desperate situations we ourselves must endure? as with every other emotion, we have within us a version of our own personal desperation being nurtured daily by the smallest of things. why then do we choose to view the open desperation of others so wantonly? is it because we are reassured that there are depths to this experience, this emotion, that we have not, and perhaps never will plumb? or conversely, is it a belief that a desperation shared and publicized is one less lonely, one less bereft of connection? have we, this generation of glazed eyes and knowing detachment, become so bereft of feeling, period, that we desire the desperation of others as much as we are unable to feel it ourselves. is the constant numbing tide of self improvement via sports drinks prodding you to watch someone pour their blood out for a cause you'd scoff at while attending a cocktail party? i, personally hope that a genocide involving a large majority of united states citizens occurs at some point within my lifetime, if europe is states governed by history and the united states governed by philosophy, the time is ripe for a sweeping revisionist crusade.
put a torch to some books, i'm saving my tips to buy bullets, motherfucker.