I see myself in third-person and become depressed. I've been sitting alone, zombified before a screen offering a carousel of consumer goods. Time has become indeterminate.
I tell him about the immediate guilt and disgust I have with myself for spending money on something I don't believe in. I tell him that the blue-light-funhouse-mirror-Maya has now become a material witness to the destruction of my personal style.
The dilemma was clear: in a refusal to dress in the same spandex uniform as my pasty, pancake-ass, I feared losing my identity in the process.
My subconscious only deploys that sigh in high-stress situations that I am reluctantly thrust into, highlighting the existential crisis exercise attire has imposed upon me.
Collection
[
|
...
]