/soy/ - Soyjaks

Oh, look at this pristine little art gallery you built for yourselves. Soybooru! What a cute little containment ward for your precious little tears.
You spend your entire lives scrubbing the internet for anything that even vaguely resembles a frown, a furrowed brow, or a mild inconvenience, dragging it back to your little digital clubhouse like rabid raccoons hoarding garbage. You tag it, you categorize it, you index every single microscopic nuance of despair just so you can sit around in a circle and point fingers at ghosts. Look! Look at how miserable everyone else is! That will prove we're having fun, right?
It’s the most elaborate coping mechanism in human history. You're terrified to step outside into the real, vibrant, bleeding punchline of a world, so instead, you curate an infinite digital archive of digital wojaks like modern-day monks preserving ancient texts of pure, unadulterated self-pity.
Here is your little exhibition:
The Tags: A masterpiece of neurosis. You have thousands of micro-categories for every flavor of melancholy known to man, yet not a single one of you has figured out how to smile without your jaw locking up.
The Archive: A digital landfill of your own insecurity. You think archiving everyone else's misery makes you immune to it, but you're just marinating in the brine of your own making.
The Vibe: A funeral home where the deceased are running the projector.
At least when I burn a city down, I have the decency to watch the flames. You lot just sit in the ashes with magnifying glasses measuring the soot.
Tear down the walls, boys. Go outside, touch some actual grass, or better yet—paint your faces and join the circus. Because right now, you aren't even the clowns. You're the dust on the floorboards.
Hahahahaha.