Bland or Rotten?
The pills weren’t enough to even to induce an unconscious state.
He kept a record of the times he had tried to kill himself, or as he said, transcend into nothingness. ‘This makes it 12. What a fucking joke!’
A member of a witless, bland utopian society, living in his own dystopic cocoon in the city, it was weeks since he had left the apartment complex.
The same old dirty jars, the stinking lavatory, wet couches, leaking, rusty faucets and the digital monotony on the soundcast ads for VR porn outside were a the silent, cute reminders of his place and his uniqueness in the world.
The angry, dull condescending commentary on the neighbors, their dog, the binary encapsulation of all thoughts, ideas, ambitions and dreams, the dexterity of the crass people and their sobriety were oft a pre-cursor to a lust-fueled rant and rave with his girl.. ‘Ex-girl’.
The lone meat wolf in a chip-and-wire dungeon.
Begs the question,
Would you rather be a radical, pissant in a utopian society where there is no soul, no taste. Everything is mechanical, cold and square.
Or a laggard yet alive lad in a dystopian one, where there are all the cardinal sins and wars and death and crime and poverty but there still is a capacity of change and a will to live. No simulation. No ads. And no decades-old, weak rat poison.
Charles gave in. This methodical life won’t suffice.
Here goes 13..