Depressed Aesthetic Novels & Stories

His expression was exceptionally appealing. Jenna felt a sense of unreality in her heart. Would Hansen actually care about whether she liked it or not? She liked it very much. She breathed through her mouth and removed all her frustration through her breaths. She stretched her body and muscles. The cool autumn wind quickly dried the sweat on her forehead. From her beautiful eyes, one could see there were thousands of thoughts in her mind! Suddenly, Jenna sadly realized that beautiful things could hardly arouse her interests as they used to. She always felt inexplicably depressed. She sighed and looked down.

He needed artwork for a competition the next month. I refused. So she broke my hand to make Asher feel better. "Wilde, what's more important? A hand or a life? Do you even understand that Asher has depression?" From then on, Asher became a permanent part of our lives. Every holiday. Every birthday. Every anniversary. Every Christmas. He always had a reason to call her away. Even on the anniversary of my father's death, one phone call from Asher was enough for Mara to leave without looking back.

Lesley screamed and writhed in pain as she lay on the dirty and muddy ground. "We witnessed how depressed Avery became when she heard about you and Sir Kieran. She cried almost every night! Do you know how much it hurt for us, who regarded her as our family?!" Gracy shouted, kicking her leg. "That's why you should just disappear!" Ella added. Gracy stomped on her head and then smiled like a mad woman. "Desperationis. That's what my power is called, which means despair. Because for the next few days, you will slowly be swallowed up by depression. You will think of nothing but negative things. You will cry every day. You will lose your appetite for everything until you can't bear the extreme s

I said to her and wave my hand before I walk towards my building. We parted ways because she will be taking Business, while I take Engineering. Honestly speaking I am very nervous right now going to our building. I’m scared of getting bullied since everyone describes me as a nerd, wearing thick frame glasses, dressing neatly, not handsome, and unpopular type. It’s been like this since forever. So, I am quite used to it.

Even my curvy lips were devoid of color. My eyes were the color of a dull washed blue. They looked like the aftermaths of a stormy night and told distant tales of sadness. I was tall compared to most of the girls. My body curved in a smooth wave which made my hips wide and my waist very slim to connect with a full round butt. Looking at my reflection every morning was something I needed to stop doing because it was one of the reasons I was depressed most of the time. Who wouldn't be depressed having a face looking like a cloud's ass? I sighed before moving away from the mirror.

I bang on a pot with a spoon, singing a off-key nursery rhyme at the top of my lungs. It is a war of aesthetics. A battle for his soul fought with color and sound. My creations are not good. They are not beautiful. But they are true. They are real. They are us. And their sheer, mundane, clashing joy is a dissonance the Muse cannot tolerate. It feeds on refined sorrow, not on messy, loud happiness. The clash of our creations—his dark perfection, my bright chaos—creates a psychic static that shakes the workshop. The Muse flickers, its beautiful form destabilizing. It cannot process this. It cannot consume this.

Lumen generated a new internal diagnostic: The Aesthetics of Endurance. It realized that beauty, in the colony model, was a function of survival. An object was beautiful not because it was new, but because it had been repaired with intent. The machine began to adjust the "Citywide Aesthetic Protocol" to favor visible repairs over seamless replacements.

Fuck. Cars. And fuck more. It was supposed to be the motto of my life. A cheesy slogan people go by nowadays. What do they call it? Yes. Aesthetic. My aesthetic was supposed to be a carefree playboy—fucking everything walking. Fuck. I was well aware and needlessly proud of my looks. I’d fuck myself too if I could.