A Labor of Love

One of the greatest (if not the greatest) things about being human is the ability to love.

Full disclaimer: at the time of this writing, I am a happily single man.

So, I am not here to discuss romantic love, nor of friendship, nor of the still yet different type of love that comes with family.

Not sexual passion, but passion regarding occurrences that aren’t quite relationships.

Feeling is what it means to be alive; one that does not feel is not alive, but is merely living.

The difference between the two is as evidenced as the fucked-up nose on Michael Jackson’s face at the end of his life.

If it were not for happiness, life would not be worth living.

This is most evidenced by people who are depressed, or who have “completed” their depression by killing themselves, and who leave a note that says, in different ways, that “life isn’t worth living anymore.”

So “feeling good” is why we live; it may not be why humanity was created (or evolved; I mean this in no controversial “religion vs. science” debate), but it is why we don’t all go kill ourselves at any given moment: we don’t want to, and we don’t want to because of our feelings: because we’re happy enough not to.

Feelings are why we live, and why we do things. They are why we propose, why we kill, and, indeed, why we take any action at all. To be human is to act upon feelings. This doesn’t mean that one acts upon all feelings that one has, but rather that all actions (including an apparent lack of action) are determined by feelings. This does not mean that we do not take calculated risks. Humans are also capable of grasping reality (to differing degrees), and often, our desires conflict with realities. We wish for this, but reality says this. This does not mean that we do what we initially desired all of the time. But, our desires are still at play here behind our decisions, for at the root of every decision is a desired result. The ultimate desire may be to be able to eat whatever one wants without suffering health problems. But scientific reality will determine whether or not one is fortunate enough to do such. However, if the reality does not allow one to do such, then the individual may either continue believing that he can do such, and do it to the detriment of his health in what sane people refer to as “insanity” (obviously not because he is unhealthy, but because he believes it to not be doing what it is actually doing), or he can compromise. However, he will still be acting towards a desire. If he desires better health, he will have to compromise on his eating habits. If he desires to continue eating unhealthy, then he will more than likely have to compromise with the length of time that he lives, and either recognize that and accept it before he dies, or continue living believing that he can live for a “long” period of time (but, ultimately, this is less likely to be the case, so it is still, ultimately, a “compromise”). For better or worse, we are creatures of passion, and we are creatures capable of action, and we are creatures whose actions are determined by said passions (with the source of said passions, no doubt, being discussion of a good debate (free will vs. determinism, no doubt)).

With that being said, what is it that makes us feel? The best answer that I can come up with (and one that I think many other people can and have came up with as well) is that it is simply our nature. Nature is simply that which “is”, whether or not that “is” was created for this reason or for that reason (whether life exists because God wants it to be that way, or because it was all just a random, happy coincidence). Nature is simply all that life is; there is no existence which is opposite to nature. This doesn’t mean just trees and animals, but rather anything which can be objectively perceived by the human mind (fundamental laws of physical phenomena, etc.). The fact that humans feel is another one of these undeniable truths, such as the “laws” of motion, and that we all must die someday.

I hope that a day never goes by that I don’t stand back and marvel at the fact that we, as humans, have comprehension abilities. Indeed, it is our ability to comprehend that gives our lives meaning at all. It is “natural” that human beings are creatures capable of learning, and indeed, it is inconceivable to imagine a world where man was not able to understand anything. Even those widely regarded as fools understand something. It is the greatest gift that has been bestowed upon mankind, for I cannot imagine a world where no one was able to understand anything. The fact that man (even if a relatively small number of human beings) can understand things so seemingly random (but yet obviously patterned) as hydrodynamics (I’d love to be able to completely understand the beautiful patterns that water can create simply due to its nature and the natures of whatever force causes said water to move in the first place), and other technical fields of scientific inquiry is simply a marvel. But not only are some select humans capable of understanding the natural world: there are people who are able to take said knowledge and apply it practically to better “the common man”.

But, as I said before, humans are feeling creatures. Sometimes, those feelings are destructive. But, I would argue, most of the time, they aren’t. It’s just that the brief occurrences of destruction are so horrific that it feels like we are more destructive as a species than we are constructive. I don’t personally believe that, but I do concede there is a great amount of man-made horror in the world; traditionally unspeakable horror…

In addition to humans being feeling creatures, humans are also diverse from one another. What is it that categorizes one as being “human”? Typically, references to being able to feel love are given. To be able to “love thy fellow man.” That the ability to love is the shared bond between us all as humans, and that is what makes us human (at least according to one view). But, for one, animals can feel love. Anyone with a dog that isn’t an asshole can see this. Is it as deep as human love? I don’t think so. But you’d have to define what it is about human love that makes us human, and be able to distinguish that from animal love, and I’m currently unable to do that, so I prefer a different definition as to what makes one “human”. And secondly, what of the psychopath? Is he still not technically human, even if inhumane? I would argue: of course he is.

Humans are born as independent creatures, capable of exercising their wills. From a religiously existential point of view, I don’t think we have free will. I do not think that we have free will from a sovereign God, but that does pose some interesting questions about the Fall of Man that I am unable to answer. Nonetheless, I don’t think we really have it at all. I’ll also leave that opinion for another topic and leave you, the reader, to personally crucify it. But it is inarguable that humans do have wills, and each individual human will is free and separate from the human wills of others, unless a crime against humanity is being committed. Our will is not free to change the scientific laws of the universe, nor to create the nature of God. It exists within a limited scope, where we, as humans, are born with desires, and make decisions. This, in my opinion, is what it means to be human.

So how would I, personally, explain to you, the reader, my opinions on my own personal humanity? What is it that I love to do? What is it that my will desires? What actions do I take that lead me to believe I will achieve certain results? You must be curious, seeing as how you are reading this. And I will attempt to answer this, but it will necessitate me to be extremely honest with myself, and I think that will be incredibly difficult for me to do at this point in my life. But I shall attempt it nonetheless!

Why do I desire to write? Well, when do I want to write? Typically, it involves the idea. Although I do enjoy the physical act of typing from an aesthetic sense, writing involves ideas. So my ideas are why I desire to write. I have ideas that I believe are meaningful, or significant, on some existential sense; and, indeed, often I feel as if I exist on this planet to write. Writing can be an incredibly painful process to me, but it can also be as natural and flowing as the most pristine river.

Typically, writing occurs very slowly for me. I have gigantic ideas in my head that I would love to write down, but the mental exhaustion is, often, too much. “What, are you writing ‘The Count of Monte Cristo’?”, you may be asking yourself. Well…maybe. The ideas in my head surrounding the writing that I feel the most serious about are often, in my opinion, big ideas. And, quite often, just the mere act of beginning the task exhausts me. Even as I write this paragraph, which is months and months apart from the beginning paragraphs that you have read, exhausts me. Perhaps I am an idiot, and this meager exercise of thought producing such exhaustion from me proves that. I’ll just leave that up to you, the reader, to decide. And if you will be so kind, please don’t tell me what you conclude.

I really don’t know how to gauge myself as a writer. “Why would you want to do that?”, you may ask yourself. Well, I just don’t want to be a shitty writer. I desire to write well. I want to write profound things, do interesting, intelligent things with language. Indeed, I think this is a large part of any (if not, at least, many) writer’s desires. It’s who I am, and it makes me happy. My soul is involved in writing. It isn’t as if I’m writing “an important piece” of writing every single day, but I wait for those moments when I cannot contain myself any longer, and the words just have to flow out. Sitting at a computer screen, struggling for the right word, is not writing to me. That’s fucking torture. That’s horrific. That is not an enjoyable experience to me, and, at least for me, that is not writing.

Writing is that idea that has been sitting in your head for seven months, which has about 15 million things you want to include, but you have no idea how to begin the piece, for fear of not being “inclusive” enough: meaning, not starting in the right spot. Sure, you could start your piece with some bullshit. But what in the fuck are you trying to say? Where you start is a large part of where you end up, and, after it is all done, you have what you have said. And if you want to say something, it’s important that you know where to start. And that’s where I struggle: right at the fucking beginning…

I’m not (necessarily) in a hurry to write. I’m in a hurry to make money. I’m in a hurry to find a career that I enjoy. But I’m not in a hurry to write. It will come when it comes. And I accept this. I do not feel in control of my writing: it fucking controls me, for better or worse. It always has, and it always will. It’s a compulsion: it just fucking comes out, and if I don’t get it down, I feel sick. Nauseous. Something about not getting that “good idea” down on paper makes me nauseous. Something about not bringing that “good idea” to life just makes me sick. I don’t know why. It sounds stupid when I say it. But still yet, if there’s any possibility that I think something is a “good idea”, I will regret it if I don’t at least make note of it. Which is why I have many word documents started with only a title, and nothing else written…

I really hate the way that I write…

Sometimes, I wish that I wrote more often. But I know that if I tried to force myself to write more often, the quality would not be as good. I would lose interest, and then I would, eventually, stop writing anyway. And I’m ok with this. I accept this. It’s a slow process, and that’s frustrating. But I accept it. I know how I believe I get my best work, and I’m happy with that. And that’s good enough for me, even if no one else can stand my writing, for whatever reason(s).

I love the moments when the writing hits me like a lightning bolt. Indeed, those are the only times that the writing occurs. And I know how “professional” writers scoff at that. But I don’t care. My writing is the way that I want it to be, and this includes the process. If this makes me an “entitled brat” or “baby”, then at least I actually enjoy what I’m doing. And that’s all I care about.

I really do wish that I could finish everything that I have started. But I just feel listless, and uninspired, most of the time. Perhaps it’s just laziness, and if it is, I accept that as well. Once again, I don’t want to work hard if I’m not going to enjoy what I’m doing, and I don’t think that I would. But it is discouraging to know that, in the back of your mind, you have so many projects unfinished, and you know their potential, and how much happiness they would bring you if completed. But you still wait, because the time isn’t right. Something isn’t right, and you can’t quite put your finger on it…Once again, it’s probably just that you’re lazy. Accept that.

Now, I suppose I will talk about my dreaded reader (ugh). To be honest, I fucking hate readers of my work. That means I hate YOU. Why do I hate you? What did you ever to do me? Well, let me tell you. First off, you’re going to have an opinion about my work. And I don’t fucking care about that. Hate is enjoyable, and produces laughter, as I write for myself; and hate is inconsequential. But, even as I say that, hate produces self-doubt. How is that? you may ask. If I don’t care, why would you produce self-doubt on my part? That’s a good fucking question. And I don’t fucking know. Yet another reason why I hate you, the reader. And you know what else I hate about you? COMPLIMENTS. Just, don’t. Please don’t. What in the fuck am I supposed to do with it? “That’s good.” Uh…ok? You going to give me money or something? Like (my particular usage of the word “like” right here shows my youth (and my language retardation)), if I’m not getting paid, I don’t care. Because I don’t fucking know what to do with it. I don’t know what to do with it, I don’t know why I don’t know what to do with it, and I don’t care to know why I don’t know what to do with it. It’s just an annoying fucking mess, and I hate all of it. And all of you (lol).

I’m just a writer, and that’s why I write. That’s it. I have stuff that I want to say, I say it, and that’s it. I don’t fucking get anything else about it, other than dreaming about becoming rich through it somehow. But that’s fucking it. That’s all I have about writing. I know that was incredibly enlightening, and this piece will be right up there with King’s “On Writing” as far as discussion of the craft is concerned, but, once again, if you will leave your praise to yourself, I would appreciate that very much.

…And if you can’t understand that I’m being sarcastic, please don’t fucking read anything else of mine ever again, you FUCKING RETARD.

Currently, most of my non-fiction is published here on this blog. And sometimes, I feel a bit crazy. I feel a bit repetitive. I feel like I write about the same things over and over and over. What I believe is the case is that similar ideas that I wish to discuss just overlap between articles: for instance, I’ve written multiple pieces simply about me writing, but I don’t believe that they are all exactly the same. The subject matter is similar, sure. But that is because I want to figure out why I write. The question remains the same in multiple pieces, so they feel similar to me. But I don’t believe they are the same. I believe that many of my pieces of non-fiction overlap. It would be a nightmare for me to organize them and combine them into one gigantic “piece”, chapter by chapter. But I definitely feel as if several pieces of my nonfiction are interconnected. I think the ideas are big, and are connected. (And if I truly am repetitive as a writer, once again, I do not care about you, as the reader. If I truly am insane, and am just rambling incoherent babble, then that is what my destiny as a writer is and I will continue to write. Once again, I don’t fucking care about what readers think about my work. I enjoy positive feedback, but only a little bit. My writing is all about me. I’m a fucking selfish writer, and that’s all I will ever be). Maybe I’m just a bad writer. And if I am: so be it.

Here, I would like to introduce some confusion that I currently feel as an “expressive” type. I have big ideas that I feel are intimately interconnected to one another. And it would feel good to have them all completed, have all of them connected, so that I could say “Wow, look at this. This is a beautiful piece of work.” But why do I want to say that? Who am I going to show that to? I don’t think that I have fully accepted the fact that my work is for me. Because the thing that confuses me is about readers. I can’t accept the fact that I only care about “readers” to the extent that it makes me money. “Making money” has been taboo to me for many, many years. And, much like sexuality, the desire to make money has been suppressed within me by religious fear. It’s hard to accept your sexuality when you’ve been told how sinful it is, and the same thing for a desire to make money. It’s really hard to undo things you have grown up believing. Which is one of life’s greatest tragedies…

In other words, I think that I was put on this earth to write and try to sell my writing. I’ve explained why I write: it’s just what I do. I can’t help myself. I just have to do it. And I don’t do it to make others feel good. I don’t do it for anyone else but me. But, I don’t write and then pile my writings in the corner of my room for them to never see the light of day. Expression is meant to be shared. Words are meant to be shared. I think it is just human nature. We all desire social activity: just along a spectrum, and of different kinds. But the “feedback loop” to me is money.

But why do I struggle with writing? And what is it that I want from it? I’ve talked about how I can become a better writer before, but I don’t know why I struggle with it. I think that my organizational abilities have been compromised over the years by social pressure. Being the “smart kid” leaves you up to a lot of bullying from those that are dumb, and my naturally passive nature just allowed them to walk all over me. So I started sounding just as dumb as them. But I’ve been miserable with my inability to write what I believe is “good”; to be able to speak intelligently in an organized manner. Also, there’s a problem that I have where I don’t feel like anyone understands what I’m saying. I have felt this way for a very long time, and it has been discouraging. Sometimes, it makes me wonder why I say anything at all. But it’s in my heart, and it has to come out, even if people don’t understand what I’m saying. It will just lead what I have to say towards a more depressing direction.

I may have just contradicted myself here. I earlier said that I don’t care what readers think. But then, I said that it is frustrating when people don’t understand what I’m saying. I think the caveat is that I don’t particularly care if a reader likes what I have to say. As long as they get it, I don’t care if they like it. I think that’s the answer to that apparent problem.

It is frustrating when other people don’t see your work as you do. Although this can change over time, I think that many creative types enjoy what they create. Some are driven mad by their perceived lack of ability to do what they wish to do, but I think that many are content with their work. And when someone doesn’t see the beauty of your work as you do, it is frustrating. Is it a natural occurrence that occurs by virtue of various aspects of human nature? Of course. It is an unchangeable reality that we all live in. But it’s precisely “unchangeable realities” that cause the most discomfort and suffering among us as humans.

Also, I’m terrified of being crazy. I’m terrified that my writings truly are, from an objective sense, incoherent babble. I don’t believe that they are. They make sense to me. But, frequently, I have found that they make sense to few others. And when they do make sense to others, I retract from those others, for fear that they will wish to develop a deeper emotional connection with me, and I do not desire that. I truly do have a tortuous personality type from time to time. The same characteristics that make me happy are the same that drive me mad. Actually, come to think of it, maybe it’s just other people that drive me mad…

The answer to me regarding the “crazy writing” problem is that if I am happy with it, and I think it is good, then it is good. I will characterize it as “good”. And I will choose how I wish to react to the reactions of my work. For some reason, it is almost taboo to say this type of thing nowadays. You mean you don’t want to hear any criticism of your work? What if it’s constructive? What if other people have good points? What if it makes you better? What if it makes you more money? My answer would be 1) tell someone who cares then 2) my writing is a very individualistic experience, whereby happiness is experienced on my part through what I write. And I have stated my opinions about the opinions of others about my work above.

“But don’t you want other people to like your work so that they give you money?” Yes. But I do not consider myself a “typical businessman” when it comes to my “art”. Am I going to be a door-to-door writer? “Yes, I’m conducting a survey on what type of writing you like. What genre do you like? How do you like the writing to go?” Of fucking course not. This is the type of attitude that non-writers give to people who dream of becoming professional writers. Honestly, I don’t think their opinion has any actual merit when it comes to the field. Does it have some fucking merit in an existential sense where everyone is entitled to their own opinion? Of course it does, you fucking idiot. But if by heeding their advice, is it going to give me more money? Maybe. But is it going to make me happy? No. Is it going to defeat the purpose of me writing? YES. Then I’m not going to fucking listen to it, and it has no merit for me. “But maybe it would if you would listen!” Fuck. You. I don’t fucking care what you have to say, please shut the fuck up, and tell someone who cares, you fucking good-for-nothing piece of human waste who can only bring others down because you’re too stupid to bring yourself up.

This is why I hate readers. I really fucking hate other people. I hate idiots. I hate people. I hate dumb readers that can’t understand what you’re saying. I hate liars. I won’t even begin to discuss them, for that’s worthy of its own piece. I wish that I was perfectly content being in my own head, where I only allowed people in at my own choosing. I’m too sensitive, and I try too hard to listen to multiple opinions equally and then make a decision. But when multiple opinions are stupid, you just can’t fucking make any sense of it. And you have to tell them it’s stupid. And then they get upset. And it’s just all a big fucking waste of goddamn time. But humans are, sometimes…

This is a bit of a tangent, but I want to discuss fear for a second. People are incredibly easily scared. When a tragedy happens, people become frightened. And when idiots become frightened, they ascribe the wrong diagnosis to what caused the tragedy in the first place. Even smart people can do this in times of stress (or, as I stated earlier, if they are malevolent), but idiots take this to a whole new level. Sadly, there are a large number of idiots in the world. Therefore, the human race is largely affected by said idiots. I don’t know why there are so many idiots in the world (what in the fuck was God thinking?), but there are. And they cause fucking problems. In the politically correct world in which we live, you can’t even discuss idiocy anymore. One more quick tangent: my theory about political correctness is that those who are PC are either stupid or evil. They are either as stupid as those that believe that music, video games, etc. cause violence, or they are as corrupt as those that proudly announce that they are protecting our freedoms by taking them away. They can only be one of the two types.

But idiots run the world. I’m not even talking about politicians. I’m just talking about the problems that idiots cause that affect everyone else around them, and the messes they create that people have to work hard to clean up. One fucking idiot who leans down to pick up their cell phone from the floorboard, completely dipping their head underneath the dash of their car, can cause untold damage to property, and can even fucking kill. Traffic is stopped for everybody (probably for an extended period of time), people are late to work, unsuspecting people hit other unsuspecting people, and, of course, somebody has to clean the fucking mess up. The idiots are a disgrace to humanity… One belligerent, wrong customer holds up the entire line for all of the innocent, unsuspecting, sane, functional members of society. Almost makes you want to be a eugenicist…

“How do you know you aren’t an idiot?” Because I’m fucking smart, that’s how. And I don’t care to explain how I know this to you, because all you’re looking to do is bring me down so you feel better about yourself, so fuck you, you self-conscious bastard. Get some fucking self-esteem. Please. And leave me the fuck alone.

And, of course, there will be some idiots that read this, and that consume other things that I create. I’m not assuming that you’re an idiot: indeed, there will be intelligent people that read this. Maybe some that even want to discuss it, or compliment it. And I’m sure there will be smart people that will have their constructive criticism, and will want to debate. But none of this will change the fact that I fucking hate the cancer known as humanity.

Right about now is the time where some fucking idiots will start comparing me to Eric Harris. Why? Because of the fear and idiocy that I just mentioned. Not to mention the PC bullshit that I just mentioned as well. I’m not saying that trying to prevent violent crime isn’t a noble goal. But for fuck’s sake, people are fucking retarded when it comes to this for reasons that I just mentioned. People can’t stay sane during a tragedy, and that compounds the problem. Mourning is one thing, but if you want to “create a change”, you need to be rational. No amount of tears are going to change this fact.

I’m not going to delve into this too much here (it will be a “subject for another piece” (interconnectedness among pieces. See? I’m not crazy…well…)), but crime prevention is a large topic that I wish to discuss eventually. I’ll simply leave a teaser and say that I’m a bit “Orwellian” in this regard (meaning leaning towards his thoughts: not the thoughts of “Big Brother”).

For some reason, there is just a relief when one expresses oneself. One can be on a deserted island, and let out a primal yell, and somehow, that will soothe their soul, if only for a little while. It is a bit strange to me. I don’t understand why we would desire to express ourselves, even no one else is around to hear it. But there is something about getting what is inside out. It’s not about other people consuming it, or feedback, but just getting it out. It’s like a relief. It just feels good. It’s like you can finally let go of what was in your head. It sits in your head, and stews, and stews, and stews, until it’s completed on paper. And sometimes, even that doesn’t end it.

Describing my writing is very difficult. It is important to me, because I want to understand it. I love to write, and I want to know why. I want to understand myself. Analyze myself. I want to do this, if for no other reason, so that I can move on. To move on to the next piece. But I have discovered something about myself (or, rather, finally admitted something to myself), and that is I am extremely lazy.

I have been afraid of being lazy for a long time. Others’ words about how I’ll be poor forever terrify me. But the thought of doing difficult work that I can’t stand does not appeal to me, either. The balance, for me, is a job that is easy, or something that I love to do (and, obviously, a combination of both preferred). I’ve always been lazy. Always loved taking the easiest way out. And although it has caused problems every now and then, I think that it has not been as bad as people made it out to be to me. Sure, people judged me. But who cares. I’ve been pretty happy about the whole thing. I do kind of worry about what I am actually going to do to make money, and how that is going to affect my happiness in life. But, I know that I am lazy. I have specific things that I enjoy doing, and I do them. There’s a reason I don’t do much else, and it’s because I don’t enjoy much else. I don’t want to try new things. I’m happy with what I’m doing. So, I’m going to do the few things that I enjoy, and do them repeatedly, and see if anyone ends up giving a fuck in the end. I’m not interested in killing myself for success. I am interested in being as lazy as possible, and developing my interests. So progress will be slow, and I can live with that; as long as I don’t fucking listen to anyone else.

When I decide a piece is good, and done, then it is good, and done. When I decide I want to write, I will write. I’ll write when and what I want to write about, and be happy with it when I am happy with it. I just care about being honest. And the monetary stresses that come along with it, I will just have to accept and deal with.

I just hope that I can keep the voices of others out of my head, and focus only on my own…

‘Twill be a long struggle, no doubt……

And I don’t know what to think about the financial aspect anymore (and, of course, I don’t want to be told what to think about it, either).

I think I’m going to end this piece right here.

That’s good……

One more thing…

Nah, I just wanted to fuck with you because I enjoy it.

I want you to be aggravated by thinking about how stupid and immature I am.

I want you to think there’s a lot more to this, when there really isn’t.

Ok, I’m done now.

The Rantings of a Crazed, Lunatic Writer.

Inspiration.

What is It That Makes Me Happy as A Writer?

A Declaration of Independence.

Analyzing My Decision-Making.

Insightful.

Murray Rothbard.

My work.

A Philosopher’s Mind.

Highly Sensitive Mind.

A Memorandum on Dreams.

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11 thoughts on “A Labor of Love

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