I’ve started writing short stories.  The tentative title for the series could be «I am learning to be stupid in the land of wise». So, here is the first one:

Idiot’s monologues.

Number 1.

I’m depressed

Oh poor girl – one person would say, another would give a number of his shrink, third would call ems and get it over with. Three relationships with insignificant other, hundreds physical pleasurable moments with unknowns. Three lives, hundreds in between. I am writing my letter, yet, not blaming anyone, not blaming myself, all I want is to figure out why I’m the last of 25 people who is still alive, or should I say half dead? I tried to end the circle but turns out it’s easier to suffer than to stop suffering forever according to psychiatrists who gives you pills, adjust dosages, who looks at the expensive watch, while he expects you spilling out your guts, without any single emotion in his face to your tears, who appears lifeless, impervious to human pain. Even after you are being stabilized, you are no longer exhibit SI symptoms, you are creating plans for the future and admit openly your sickness in front of the crowd, laugh at yourself as if you and yourself are two complete strangers, diminish and reject all the emotions and find a correct path to salvation: get a job back, go to the church, join to the gym, become vegetarian, do recycling and read New York Times. Every time you are craving for becoming it- the most wanted, a perfect machine that serves to the societal benefit, government benefits, a perfect prisoner, blind and deaf, with a clock punch in and out according to the life manual that was written by monsters.