Nothing to Say
July 5th, 2024
Here I yap forever more. Because, well, I guess I gotta' get it out of my system somehow, and I certainly don't want to yap towards the people close to me.
I don't feel comfortable... using people like that. Like they're some sort of tool for me to get out my feelings, to take out my emotions on, some sort of rock that I can thrash and shake about emotionally to be my little tampon. It just feels wrong to do that.
I can kind of just move on forward with my writing, without worrying about this or that or hurting someone with my words. After all, it's somebody's decision to read what I write, and I'm not using any communication channels to openly insert my opinion elsewhere. And there are plenty of warnings on this site that I hold some controversial opinions and ideas, as well as just being an overall bore.
I think I just yap endlessly.
The Future, What I Want to Say, What I can say
I don't know any of it.
A two week ago, I've been drawing for two weeks straight everyday. For some reason. Even with the AI boom coming to take over and draw beautiful images over what I can do with my measley crappy drafting skills, I still pursued it for some reason.
And yet, when I sit down and really look today, I feel demotivated. Because, because, I realized that I have nothing that I want to say.
Maybe it's not that I have nothing that I want to say, but rather that there is nothing that I know I can say. Or is that really the case?
I don't know what's really going on deep inside my head, my subconscious, my mind, the neurons firing, whatever abstraction or word you want to call it, the point is that I don't know. I don't know what I want to say, I don't know why I draw or write or do any of it. I don't show it to anyone, I don't show the piece of works I make to anyone, the content I produce goes to the void, to nothingness, or lost in the sea, the ocean of the internet of content where the few words I can produce are nothing to the trillions of terabytes of data floating out there in silicon-hard drives across the world.
And, to arrogantly believe that whatever I have to say, to write, is meaningful, is beyond any capacity of my mind. I believe that I don't have what it takes, and yet I still feel the inexplicable urge to write something.
It's horrible. I can't even feel my toes, I can't feel the content pouring from my mouth and my orifices, I can't feel the emotions that are piling up inside of me, that are begging to be poured out onto a piece of paper. Yet, yet, I still continue to write out of some sheer lack of inexplicable inability to explain and continue my very existence.
I wish that, at the bottom of my heart, that I came up with some concretion, some story of sorts, where I have characters moving about a page, and moving about the world, wondering what the hell is even happening.
And to move upon and upon, over and over, like I'm some storytelling wisecrack, oh... I don't know. I don't know at all!