NIHILIHIN 1: Post-Project Depression

4750f21b04ff71ba3c099163f120916bOnce prosperity in the city reached its highest point, depression and suicide rates soared. Why was it that when everyone had all they needed to survive, they all suddenly decided they wanted to die? Without the driving will to gain what they needed to live, it was as though their motives were drowned in apathy, as though the entire world had gone through an existential crisis and only those who found their own worth could continue living. From this, a new evolutionary process for humans beings began.

As a writer, this wasn’t a difficult transition. My worth wasn’t measured by what money or resources I could acquire, only by what meaning I could pull from an ultimately meaningless world. I know what you’re thinking, a nihilist writer seems like an oxymoron, but when your meaning is in itself an attempt to find meaning, the circular logic creates an odd equilibrium. Save to say that the times I wanted to kill myself the most were just after I’d finished a long project. I had to find something new soon, if I was to save myself.

Seeing the massive stack of papers on my desk, you’d think that I’d feel some sort of pride, but all I felt was emptiness. I’d heard that it was kind of like empty nest syndrome, but instead of moving on with life as parents could, you’re desperately fumbling for ideas that might have the potential to draw out some kind of meaning. Yet I had repeated this process enough to know that each time I tried, the only meaning I could find was a shallow escapism that had already been done a million times before.

I needed something new, an idea that would really hit at the core of civilization, and I knew there was only one place I’d be able to find it. Turning my back on another failed attempt, I decided the city, the heart of civilization itself, would be my best inspiration. In an apartment designed to prevent the social pressures of those on the spectrum, each exit led straight to a lift. On odd occasions these prevention measures ironically increased the likelihood of such a confrontation.

The girl inside looked like graffiti on the side of a building, the black and white colors of her hair and clothes breaking her up into perfect horizontal segments that seemed to be mathematically designed to induce arousal. That was her own worth; guys wanted to fuck her. She would go to one place and the guys wanted to fuck her there, then she would go another place and guys wanted to fuck her there. I wanted to fuck her… but that wasn’t my meaning, there was no point in it, no worth.

Stepping in and seeing that we were both heading to the ground floor, I turned and waited for the doors to close. Eyes that had been previously closed opened to reveal glistening sapphires.

“Going down to the zoo, huh?” she asked and I swallowed as the doors shut and we began our descent.

Advertisements
This entry was posted in Writing. Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to NIHILIHIN 1: Post-Project Depression

  1. Silvachief says:

    Maybe this is my own ego speaking, but that title seems familiar 😄

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s