Garbage Planet

posted on 18 Jul 2026

People are typically a product of their times, and we’re living in a schizo-pit of meaningless noise. The masses have always produced a landfill of media garbage devoid of creativity, originality, and emotional texture. In the past decade, and especially in the past five years, it’s gotten exponentially worse, reaching heights that I never thought would be possible. It’s gotten to the point where there’s almost no doubt in my mind any longer that the COVID-era brain damage people are refusing to talk about has taken a toll that won’t be reversed for decades to come.

Add to this the putrid addiction people have to consuming the slop fed to them by their master’s through their screens. One’s mental diet has rippling effects on their plastic brain. What you end up with is a population whose brains are being rewired to search out and think in terms of low-effort, unoriginal, shallow, useless, meaningless cancer laced with only the most primitive of emotions: those which produce outrage. These very people are the ones who then go on to create their own output in some form, armed with a mind whose limbs have been severed and which has been spit upon with bile.

There are few corners to retreat now. It seems as if the only place you won’t find an ad, won’t find something demanding a subscription, won’t find someone demanding that you give them money for a service or a product, is the analog realm. Books, CD, vinyl, cassettes, video games that are contained on a disk (they want to take this away now) or a cartridge, actual human beings (mostly ones who have not been affected by this plague and are still capable of independent thought and emotion, who are awake to this viscious cycle and who despise it with every strand of DNA in their body).

It all builds up into an overarching pattern, and it explains why the attempts at “creativity” we see now are worth nothing more than a piss stain on the sidewalk. They’re formulas, serving the purpose of raking in profits, and those who have lost their humanity gladly dole out the money to be filled to their mouth with leachate gruel, keeping the desolate body alive and pumping with noxious liquid.

It’s the death of potential, and the rebirth is likely a long ways off. This is a flattening of humanity and its very capabilities. This is the death of relics past.

While a few gems manage to be forged in this hellscape, they’re getting rarer than a possibility of an afterlife, or dare I say the possiblity of contentment.

Those at the top can see themselves to the noose.

But that will never happen. Instead, we’ll disintegrate until we realize that there was once something inside of us.