I wish I could write again
That's the only thing I have ever wanted to do. But the words just don't flow so easily anymore. There is no inspiration. I don't know how some scientists are also such excellent writers. It itches and burns inside of me, but I cannot write a line of poetry like I used to some 7 years back. I don't know why I stopped. I used to blame it on the lack of appreciation, but that was just me being whiny. I know that I have never cared much about who reads what I write, in fact I don't want to put my personal stuff out in the open for people to interpret me through it. I deleted all of my old writing and poetry because it felt too private, too many rants, giving away too much. I have met so many people who used to read my writing and most of them have been very appreciative, even going to the extent of telling me that those words left a lasting impact on them. I have tried to write, being inspired by the encouraging words, but nothing just comes anymore. There is just a blank where I used to draw it all from. Maybe it's life that happened. I found out the hard way that everything is pointless, nothing makes any sense. When I want to write, I find it meaningless to express my feelings since those feelings don't amount to anything at all. Poetry is the most difficult thing to write because poetry takes passion and that is the one thing that has disappeared completely from my existence. How can you find passion when you are always thinking about the inevitability and unpredictability of death, the futility of human existence and the fleeting transience of all human emotion? When you truly come to believe that someone created humanity as a thought experiment and that you as an individual are insignificant to everyone in the world apart from yourself and your family in this world of billions, can you even create a thing of beauty around the petty and mundane things that happen in your life everyday? Like someone giving you attention, or not giving you attention, and the whole spectrum of emotions that the receipt or denial of attention induces in the human mind. It is beautiful when someone does, but I cannot be one of them anymore, I know too much.
Still I wish that I could write. Write stories maybe. Stories still make sense even in our empty lives, in fact stories are all we have to fill our empty lives with. I have always been engrossed by fiction, almost wanted to live my life as a work of fiction, so many people I know still live their lives that way and they are the ones still writing passionate poetry, good for them. I cannot get started on a story, I won't know where to finish. So I just keep this need to write suppressed and write bad blog posts when it gets too much to tolerate. Sometimes I think I'll write a book of my twisted philosophy. But a nihilist's philosophy ends in just a few lines. So it won't really be a book... just a flyer maybe. I will stand in a corner and hand them out to people, who will then throw them on the street, and everything will soon be a mess. Quite the reflection of life.
That's the only thing I have ever wanted to do. But the words just don't flow so easily anymore. There is no inspiration. I don't know how some scientists are also such excellent writers. It itches and burns inside of me, but I cannot write a line of poetry like I used to some 7 years back. I don't know why I stopped. I used to blame it on the lack of appreciation, but that was just me being whiny. I know that I have never cared much about who reads what I write, in fact I don't want to put my personal stuff out in the open for people to interpret me through it. I deleted all of my old writing and poetry because it felt too private, too many rants, giving away too much. I have met so many people who used to read my writing and most of them have been very appreciative, even going to the extent of telling me that those words left a lasting impact on them. I have tried to write, being inspired by the encouraging words, but nothing just comes anymore. There is just a blank where I used to draw it all from. Maybe it's life that happened. I found out the hard way that everything is pointless, nothing makes any sense. When I want to write, I find it meaningless to express my feelings since those feelings don't amount to anything at all. Poetry is the most difficult thing to write because poetry takes passion and that is the one thing that has disappeared completely from my existence. How can you find passion when you are always thinking about the inevitability and unpredictability of death, the futility of human existence and the fleeting transience of all human emotion? When you truly come to believe that someone created humanity as a thought experiment and that you as an individual are insignificant to everyone in the world apart from yourself and your family in this world of billions, can you even create a thing of beauty around the petty and mundane things that happen in your life everyday? Like someone giving you attention, or not giving you attention, and the whole spectrum of emotions that the receipt or denial of attention induces in the human mind. It is beautiful when someone does, but I cannot be one of them anymore, I know too much.
Still I wish that I could write. Write stories maybe. Stories still make sense even in our empty lives, in fact stories are all we have to fill our empty lives with. I have always been engrossed by fiction, almost wanted to live my life as a work of fiction, so many people I know still live their lives that way and they are the ones still writing passionate poetry, good for them. I cannot get started on a story, I won't know where to finish. So I just keep this need to write suppressed and write bad blog posts when it gets too much to tolerate. Sometimes I think I'll write a book of my twisted philosophy. But a nihilist's philosophy ends in just a few lines. So it won't really be a book... just a flyer maybe. I will stand in a corner and hand them out to people, who will then throw them on the street, and everything will soon be a mess. Quite the reflection of life.
