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Just a taste
There are as many different flavors of depression in here as there are flavors of ice cream out there. Every man, no matter how strong their spirit, will eventually get a taste.
There is a dark kind of depression that floats around in abundance. It consumes its host like a sickness. The men who feast on this variety are easy to spot: there’s a certain hollowness to them, a big vacancy in the deepest part of their eyes. A place in their soul where once lived a will. You can usually find these diners in fetal position atop their racks, not giving a fuck about anything or anyone. Theirs is the most dangerous flavor because it is silent… and highly contagious.
There is a flamboyant kind of depression worn on the sleeve for all to see. It’s an odd flavor – it requires attention to survive, attention received from other fans of the taste. Connoisseurs enjoy and hate each others’ company simultaneously. Like I said, an odd flavor.
There is even a conflicted kind of depression whose presence is denied by its consumers – “I can stop whenever I want.” The optimistic few make attempts to counter its bitter taste with laughter, visions of the future and an belief that just as misery loves company, so does joy. Yet every once in a while we taste it, bitter on our tongues.
I was staring out the window the other day, past the razor wire that separates us from the civilized world. One of the old timers walked up behind me and said
“You look like a 90-year-old man, staring out the rear view mirror to try and figure out where you made a wrong turn.”
I laughed. We usually do, him and I. But when he’d gone, I wondered if he’d chuckle if he knew how close to the truth he was.
I stared a little longer, then got up to make an extra strong cup of coffee to get that taste out of my mouth.
Be good to each other,
A word from the Artist...
Aside from being my mental lifeline to the outside, this blog is an effort to help provide my beautiful son, Orion, with a little support while I am away. Any profit generated by the Ads on this blog get split between him and a charity that builds wheelchair accessible playgrounds for disabled children.
Aside from that, my spirit pretty much survives on sincere correspondence from the outside world. Letters sent by anyone are more valuable to me than clean socks. Write me, and I'll write you back.
Dante Orpilla #49007-112
FCI SHERIDAN, SATELLITE CAMP, P.O.BOX 6000
SHERIDAN, OR 97378
DO NOT SEND FUNDS TO THIS ADDRESS
On June 16th, 2010, I was sentenced to serve 28 months in a Federal Penitentiary, for possessing with intent to distribute a Class A narcotic. This blog is a visual representation of that experience. Please enjoy responsibly.
For the better part of my life I have operated under the beautiful assumption that mans greatest gift is his ability to create. And so I do. My name is Dante. I am an artist, a musician, a writer and, above all, a very proud father.
Please note that messages are sent in writing to Blackmarket Arts and due to his situation he will not be able to respond. If you would like to begin a correspondence, please write to him.