He is sandwiched between the pizza delivery guy and the gynecologist (they both can smell it but cannot eat it).
As a foreigner, opportunities seem scarce, and the pervasive sense of exclusion from mainstream society weighs heavily on him. His efforts to find employment have been fruitless, leaving him without a sense of purpose or financial security. That’s why he’s dying in thirst for PYT (pretty young thing) but still being ‘Professional Single,’ rather scared of getting the financial disease called WIFE (Worries Invited For Ever). As a joking way to put it, he’s becoming so dumb that one night he slept with a ruler next to his head to see how long he slept. However, what was once a form of expression now mirrors every inch of his inner turmoil. The photographs, meant to capture the beauty of the surroundings, instead reflect darkness and gloom—empty streets, harsh lines of buildings, shadows creeping into every frame. Unable to explore his ideas nor express anything, his pain echoes and grows longer and longer, thousands of inches every year. Even the difference between “Oooooh” and “Aaaaaah” is about just three inches. In a world where society feels like a barrier rather than a support system, his work has unintentionally become a diary of his isolation. His photography, though somber, is a testament to his existence—silent but undeniable. Yet, despite this outlet, the weight of daily suffocation remains, making each day harder to endure. We know an African wise saying: “If you go to sleep with an itching buttock, you are sure to wake up with smelly fingers.” Maybe that is the reality of his fate, where hope is hospitalized (gunned down) by depression. Follow Bored Panda on Google News! Follow us on Flipboard.com/@boredpanda! Please use high-res photos without watermarks Ooops! Your image is too large, maximum file size is 8 MB.
