Source (his blog): The “Rejection Response” Poem
As so eloquently stated by Mises (and elaborated by Rothbard), human beings use means to achieve ends. This is known as “praxeology”. I decided to embark on writing this as, not too long ago, I was sitting and thinking about what I was doing. Now what exactly was it that I was doing? Good question. I was thinking about stuff that I do: namely, writing and making Youtube videos. I decided to do these things in an attempt to make a career that I thought I would actually enjoy. It is my life’s mission to have a job that I actually like, and not one that I hate, but need. I’ve written before about how I came to have this “philosophy” for myself.
But I sat and thought about writing, and Youtube: specifically, how unknown I am in these regards. Although I’ve, most of the time, been optimistic about my ability to succeed in my “ultimate endeavor”, on this occasion, I was not. I thought about the work that I had done, and how unknown it was. And thought about continuing to put even more fervor into my work to get things done, only to have the work continue to remain unknown. Perhaps I’m just an “immature adult” that needs to “grow up”. But, deep down, I have been convinced that I can succeed. I looked at the current level of my “success”, and was dejected. Knowing how much more work I wanted to create, and my vision of where I could take it financially, felt destroyed. I felt like I had to find something else to do. I felt like I finally need to factor in money more so than the enjoyment of the labor.
Perhaps you find that funny. I’m not going to go into detail about my current financial state. But, as I have said, my main goal is to find a career that I actually enjoy. And, currently, writing and Youtube are the only things that I can realistically (go ahead and laugh) think of. The only things that I think I can work towards that will make me happy. Any time that I’ve tried to come up with an “alternative” (specifically “realistic” ones), I have not been happy. You may say that it doesn’t matter if I’m happy or not, but I have, and will continue, to address my philosophy about “happiness”.
I’ve written about my laziness before. And, clearly, that contributes to my lack of financial success in some way. But, perhaps it’s because of my youth, and the natural “rebelliousness” that comes with it, I’m not satisfied to only dream of financial success at my current “dream careers”. Nay, I also desire to, in almost every way possible, succeed in every way that should be “impossible” to succeed in. What do I mean? Well, for one, my Youtube thumbnails. I enjoy the atrocious thumbnails that I make in Microsoft Paint. The thumbnails that literally anyone could make better than me. All across Youtube, there are professional thumbnails that are pleasing to the eye. And I don’t dislike that. But, perhaps due to my “youthful contrarianness”, I can’t help but “prove to the world” that I can succeed without those “professional” thumbnails. Trivial and childish? Perhaps. And, once again, perhaps it is because of my youth, my youthful ignorance, or my ignorance. But that is also included in my “career goals”: not only proving that I can turn what I enjoy doing into a career, but that I can also do it “unprofessionally”.
The final, and much more difficult aspect of this, is, admittedly, insane. The final “contrarian” point is that I want to purposefully make people dislike me in order to make people like me. This one is much harder for me to reconcile (obviously). What do I mean? Well, I have found (as has everyone), that throughout the course of my life, I have made people feel anger, discomfort, or other negative emotions, simply by the way that I naturally wanted to be. What do I mean? Well, my sense of humor, for one. It’s very dark, perverted, profane, etc. I have experienced that it makes many people uncomfortable, and, after I started putting it on the internet, that it makes people angry. And I’ve honestly started to fuel off of these things. I think it is because if I wish to express what I naturally desire to express, then I have to fuel off of these things. I can either adapt, shut up, ignore, or use that for motivation, and because my desire to express myself honestly is so strong, I choose to fuel. It isn’t enough for me to just ignore people’s anger and discomfort. I want to magnify it. I don’t believe this is out of sadism. It is about me speaking honestly, freely, and confidently. It is my overpowering desire to not be silenced. My desire to speak is stronger than my care for the feelings of others (to a certain extent, of course). The thought of proving people wrong, succeeding in a way that no one thought possible, motivates me. It’s what drives me to continue. My love of the work is the strongest reason why I create the work. But my desire to sell the work stems from, obviously, the desire for financial security, but also just because I’m told I can’t. The typical immature, childish reason to do anything in this world. When I developed this belief (thanks to how I was raised), I listened to successful person after successful person, and tried to find something within myself that I felt like connected me to them. And a big thing that I related to was that all of them told of how they were always told that they’d never succeed. That right there clicked with me. “Hey, me too! I can succeed, too!” That was pretty much my only reason for feeling like I could relate to these successful people. It wasn’t because I believed I was particularly talented. Just that I was told that I’d never succeed in finding a “dream job”.
Perhaps, one day I’ll finally accept one (or more) of the, I’m sure, many reasons that people finally “grow up”. But I’m on a mission to find out everything for myself, regardless of the scale of the negative consequences that I may experience because of my choices.
Of course, I don’t really know how to convince anyone that I can do this. The work speaks for itself, and do I truly believe that my work as it stands is enough for success? No, I don’t. It’s a starting point, but there’s a Hell of long way to go. But I believe that I can do it. You can’t arrive at a destination without steps, and I believe that articles like this, and the work that I’ve done up to this point, are steps (it remains to be seen just exactly how big these “steps” will truly be in retrospect).
I’ve already written about how I believe my writing stacks up with “the best”, and you can read that here. I’ve also written about how I feel about my writing, and how I can get better. I’ve written a little bit about why I write, but I believe I could elaborate on that further; and I’ve also written about selling writing, but I will write more about that as well.
I’m currently at the stage where I realize how important my mental independence really is. I’m starting to realize how important my choices are, and that I have control (to what degree, I don’t know). I don’t need to be told what to write, or how, or when. I’m in control of all of that. Even if I suck, I’m in control. And it’s just going to take time and experience to figure out what I’m going to be taking, where I’m going to take it, and how I’m going to get it there (and why is important to know as well). It’s a slow process, but I’m thankful I don’t have a formal “teacher” distracting me from my own personal literary journey (no canon!)
I am beginning to understand that literature is a slow process; especially for me. I can’t explain why I want to write when I do, or what makes me want to write about something. But I can tell that, whatever it is I’m ultimately doing, it is a long process. There’s a lot of quitting involved. A seemingly infinite number of baby steps. There’s a method to the madness. The more mad, the better, in my opinion. Deep down, I think I know that time makes things better. The brain ages, and gets better at things, before it gets worse at things. It’s very odd. It seems out of my control. When I was younger, I remember trying so hard to do so many different things, and failing spectacularly. I was frequently discouraged, and reached many breaking points. Developed coping mechanisms that I thought I would continue for the rest of my life. But, eventually, the coping mechanisms became problems themselves, and I had to hope and pray that things changed. I finally just got better at stuff. I have no idea how: I just fucking did. And I know writing will be no different. I can already tell, as I read stuff that I started writing several years ago, just how bad it was. What has changed over those years? I honestly don’t know. I don’t feel like I’ve written enough to say that practice helped me get better. All I can say, similarly to the past, is that divine intervention just changed some things, thankfully. I have big dreams in my head, but I know it is going to take painfully slow steps to get there. But the good thing is that once they are taken, there’s no need to backtrack. The work you put in will make you feel good when you get to where you are going. But you need stops along the way, even if they are frequent and lengthy. I think breaks are just as important when working on something as the “working” on it is. They shouldn’t be avoided.
I need to learn to love the process. The struggles, although annoying, are important. It makes the task at hand more fun. Looking at a vision of the future, and all of the obstacles that stand in the way of that completed vision, are very interesting. They make the journey more fun. They just give you something to do with life, and that is very important. It’s the difference between living and feeling alive.
I don’t know when or how I’m going to get better at writing. I can tell that this is a huge challenge. I’m sure that, the more I get involved, the more of the iceberg is going to show. But, hopefully by that point, I will be prepared enough to do with the iceberg whatever the fuck it is that I intend to do with it. But the point is that I want the iceberg, and I want to see what happens as a result of it.
It’s quite humorous to think, just a few short years ago, that I thought I was a “good” writer. Now, those “good” writings are just godawful. Now, today’s writings feel good. I’m encouraged that, in the future, these words will be horrible, and I’ll have beautiful words to replace these with. It makes the journey worthwhile, even if it is hard to figure out what the first steps should be. And, of course, even if, many times, I wish to just stay at home and watch T.V. instead of traversing the tough terrain of the tundra looking for the tip of that iceberg poking through the membrane film of my mind.
Reading is a struggle as well. There’s so much to read. The brain has finite energy. “Exhaustion” is the name of the game for everyone. Writers and readers are no exception.
There’s a fine line between fate and will. I’m constantly balancing between the two. Action leads to failure. But it also leads to success. It leads to exhaustion. But it leads to purpose. It leads to bad work. But it leads to good work.
I’m just one small writer in this world. In the past, I thought I could be one of the best. Now, I don’t care as much. Just one of those weird differences that just happen with time. It’s just hard to explain. Experience. Biological growth. It’s just destiny. It’s just weird. The shitty writing of today will be funny in the future. And the future writing will have to be better, because that’s what happens when you put time and effort into something. Usain Bolt once crawled. We all just want to be retired gold medalists as soon as possible.
My mind has visions, and it’s a slow process. There’s no way around this. This is “just how it is.” But I long for the days when it’s all better than it is today. As much as I hate bringing up my age, I can “hang my hat” on the fact that I’m young, and if I live long enough, will be writing for a long time. That has to bear some fruits of quality somehow.
There’s a certain craziness I wish to unleash to the world. It’s frustrating to dream when your dreams aren’t completed. It’s hard to continue when it is so daunting; when you’re as bad at doing what you want to do as I am. The process is a slow drip; but time creates the erosion. Drips make a significant impact over time. If you stare at each drip, the process takes even longer. You can’t be an observer to your own drips. You just have to drip, and then, one day, someone else will bring the erosion to your attention, and you’ll say “Holy shit. Those drips actually fucking did something.” I can’t wait for that day to come, but the problem will be that day is only going to come after a lot of things go (such as my legs, memory, etc.). Of course, I can’t forget my lunch breaks (and I love to eat).
Of course, I want to marvel at the works of others. Learn from them; be inspired by them. In some ways, that means turning off the faucet. But, ultimately, it helps the goal. It slows down the process. Gives the process more steps. But, ultimately, it helps the process. It’s all part of the complicated process. Before you know it, there will be another change, and you’ll be better than you were before. At least, you will be if you don’t stop dripping.
As frustrated as I get at the amount of times I “quit” (or take a break); as frustrated as I get, I can tell when I’m dripping. I can tell when the faucet gets turned on a little bit more. I can see progress. It makes sense that the more you do something, the better you will get at it. But when you start, and you suck, it’s hard to see where, when, and how that progression is going to come.
I can see all of the visions in my head. But they can’t be done instantaneously. They can only be done with effort and experience, and only over a period of time. I’m finally able to accept that, instead of being frustrated at my inability to create good pieces of art instantaneously and just making the entire process harder on myself. I can only say the difference is experience and biology.
I literally have nothing to lose by having an optimistic attitude about my work. I wish more people would adopt that attitude for themselves (but mainly just so they’d leave me alone).
Even if I don’t succeed, the mental stimulation and spiritual satisfaction provided towards working on this goal, I truly believe, cannot be fulfilled by anything else. I don’t desire to have kids, so raising a child would not provide me with this level of fulfillment. I don’t believe any career other than the ones that I desire could. “Well, have you tried?”, you may ask. No, I haven’t. And I don’t plan to. All I plan to do is write and make people laugh at me. That’s it. That’s the challenge: getting paid to do these things. I can’t think of anything more fulfilling than trying to make this happen, and I truly don’t want to find anything “more fulfilling” than this. Aside from my lack of financial success, this is already perfect for me.
There are always voices of doubt in my head. Many of them are related to voices I have heard in the past. But there are other voices that silence them, if only momentarily. And it is during those moments that the dripping begins. I’m in this for the long haul. My love for writing is never going to leave me. This means that I am going to be doing it for life, and, as such, it will have to improve. That’s encouraging, whatever my struggles are. And, currently, those struggles are pretty significant. Small steps. Drips.
I need to work harder on developing my own voice. I want my voice to drown out the voices of all others. “You’re going to drown!”, they yell from the shore. “You’re crazy! Why don’t you pick a different hobby? You’re wasting your time!” Do I want to listen to them? No, I don’t. I just want to write. I just want to make people laugh at me. And I want to make money. These are all I care about. No amount of “advice” is going to change this. All my eggs may be in one basket, but I’m imaginative enough to see the Easter Bunny in my head. And I like that thought.
And as far as how I fit in with “the market” in the long term, although you may say that my prospects are bleak, I’m going to hold out hope, if only because I feel like I, realistically, have no other purpose. Or, perhaps less “drastically”, that I don’t want any other purpose. Feel free to equate me with a child having a temper tantrum; I’d rather be a dreamer than a miserable “adult”. I’ll take that any day of the week, even if I get strange looks as I frolic with the Easter Bunny.
Another day of pondering the political future. Another day of wondering how much longer the freedoms will last.
Another day of very little reading. Another day of disappointment. Another day of comparisons. Another day of longing.
Another day of exhaustion. Another day of lethargy. Another day of uncertainty. Another day wasted.
Another mundane day. Another routine day. Another hopeless day. Another day with a limited mind. Another day with stupid.
Another day with junk food. Another day with hypochondria. Another day of apathy. Another day of worry.
Another day with uncertainty. Another day with boredom. Another day with uncertainty. Another day with repetition.
I never cease to be disappointed. I constantly find myself involved in ethical debates, if only as a listener. I find myself a listener, obviously, because I find the discussions interesting. Ethics are something that I want to ponder and discuss. But as I start to go down this road, I often feel it is in vain. I find myself realizing that some things have not changed, and some things will never change. The same problems that exist today have always existed. I find it quite annoying that technological geniuses can’t contemplate philosophically. As if every new combination of physical matter is somehow going to make humans ethically better. Then, news media reports on how the technological medium is making us worse, while seemingly ignoring the benefits it gives us. Where is the perspective?
There are few in the “technological realm” that understand that the tools are used to make specific things better, but not humans as a whole. The tools are merely tools, able to be used for good or evil. They themselves convey no “good” or “evil”. But still yet, there are idiots that complain that tools are corrupting our youth, etc. It really makes me wonder: what’s the point of pointing all of this out?
Let me try to be more general for a second. Let’s take writing. I am writing this right now. You are reading this right now. I’m attempting to convey certain points that I wish to communicate because I want to, for various reasons, and, if you are reading this, you chose to, for various reasons, and you will come to various conclusions about what I have written here. Why am I doing this? Why are we doing this? Why do we do this? Why do we communicate? On a certain level, I understand that we’re all human. We all are similar in that regard. And part of being human means being able to speak and listen. But it bothers me that I don’t know why this is the case. Sometimes, I wish we were all automatons, incapable of communication, and that we could all still function as independent, unrelated entities. Because I find myself exhausted from communication of all sorts.
Why do I write when others have written?, I find myself asking. I compare myself to other writers. Why? Because, as writers, we all want readers. It is impossible for every reader to read every writer. So, many writers want readers to choose themselves over other writers. It’s about supply and demand. Just natural. “Pick me, pick me!” But I find myself having certain problems with this within myself. For one, I know there are countless other writers more deserving of being read than me. So why do I write? I don’t know. There are writers that I haven’t read. So why should anyone read me? I don’t know. How much time and effort should I put into writing? I certainly don’t spend a lot of time doing it: only when something strikes me, and that hasn’t been too often as of late. And what about people that lie when they write? What about people who have written insights that go unnoticed? So many things go through my head when I want to write that I sit paralyzed by my own thoughts. I want to write something significant. Meaningful. And I want to get paid. But, I suppose I’m the whining, unsuccessful author at this point in my life. And I’m starting to wonder why I’m really writing at all.
For one, I don’t know how I can expect to be read when I don’t read. I’ve written about that here. Before, I thought “Well, I’ll just write, and see what happens.” But nothing has happened. Writing now actually feels like an unproductive endeavor. And I don’t know what I can replace it with. It’s always felt natural to me when it happens. What could I possibly replace it with? Is there anything else that feels “natural” to me? Certainly, the majority of writers that write are “financially unsuccessful”. This is true for anyone that does anything. And people will choose, on an individual level, whether to continue anyway or do something else. But I don’t think I have anything else. I don’t really want to learn anything else. I’m stuck with an unproductive “skill”, for lack of a better term, and I don’t know what to do with it. I’m growing tired of writing for no, or few, readers. I listen to popular arguments, and think “You know, there’s so many good ideas from history that are being ignored. And I’m ignoring them as well. So why am I even doing this? Why do I even care if my ideas resonate?” And, the answer is, that I don’t know.
I’m growing tired of writing, because everything is becoming repetitive, and not enough people are reading my works to satisfy me. I also find reading to be dreary, because I don’t feel like I’m gaining anything from it. Even when I read things that I enjoy, I start to ask…what’s the point of this? I think I’m finally getting to the point where I care more about money than enjoying my work. I’ve worked for basically no pay with, for example, writing, and I think I’m finally done with it. I don’t care as much about it anymore. I want to do something more financially sustainable. As much as I’d love to be a professional writer, I just don’t think I want to do this anymore like I once did. I’m tired of dreaming about big paychecks. I’m tired of dreaming of writing popular things. I don’t really care about these dreams anymore. And that’s not something I would’ve ever thought I would’ve said several years ago. But the truth is is that I’ve given this as much of a shot as I’ve wanted to, and I’m just done with it now. I’m done dreaming of success. I want to actually do something that makes me successful. I know you, as the reader, don’t care. But I don’t care that you don’t care, and I don’t know why you’re reading this.
The problem is that I’m still torn. I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’m still in development. I don’t think writing things down when I’m still contemplating them (and don’t have a resolution) is a good idea (as you can probably tell by the transition from the past paragraph to this sentence). At least for me. I’d prefer it if I had it all figured out, and then, it was simply a matter of retracing my steps, or something. Deep down, I just want to be happy. I’m pretty sure that’s universal. It’s a matter of finding out what that is, and how to get it. And this is where the “fun variety of life” comes in. What makes you happy can change. Experience can change you. Lots of things can change. And some things never do. Once again, I find myself stuck. I love to write. But I’m tired of not having any readers. So do I purposefully try to obtain more readers? Or do I just continue to write what makes me happy? Do I finally give up on dreaming of having a dream career? Or do I hang on? Who do I listen to, and who do I ignore? What do I do? The point is, I’m getting tired of what I’m doing right now. But I don’t know what to do about it. I’m tired of the repetitive nature of “popular discussion”, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m constantly in a state of conflict (as I think everyone is, honestly). I want to learn, but I’m sick of reading. I want to write, but I’m sick of not being read. I want to write something meaningful, but there’s a human history full of meaningful things, so what’s the point of trying to add one thing to a history full of things? I don’t know the answer, and it bugs me. People bug me. Communication bugs me. I wish that I felt completely alone. Resistant to all outside influence. But, when I desire to learn, I can’t be. When I desire to write, I can’t be. When I need money, I can’t be. Here, I can hear you saying “Sometimes, you have to change.” But sometimes, you don’t. I want to rise above cliches. I don’t want to live my life by cliches much like conservatives live by the Ten Commandments. I’ve gone down that road before, and it doesn’t work. Taking cliches and trying to make them “more true” than they are doesn’t work. Something is missing. And I don’t know what it is. I want to say that the only thing missing is financial success. I think that’s a big part of it. But something else is missing as well. Why am I here? Why am I here with people I hate? Why can’t I be somewhere else? How can I be alone? I need answers to these questions more than anything in life. Well, besides a career, I suppose.
I’m happy with all of my work up to this point, even if, in retrospect, I don’t think it’s very good, because all of my past work has led my work to what it is today. But I can’t make someone else like it if they don’t. I’m not going to treat my work like a product to be moulded to consumer demands. So, that means that if I’m going to create, and my creations are not “in demand”, I just have to live with it. That means I’m going to have to have a new perspective about it all. I need a new way to deal with people. I just need to “grow up”, I guess. And, once again, I don’t really know why I write. I don’t know why I dream of success. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I know is that I do what I think will make me happy. That’s all that I really care about. I’m getting tired of what I’ve been doing, and something is going to have to change. I just don’t know what that is, or what will bring it about, and that is bugging me right now.
I think, much like my dad always desired for himself, that I just wish to retire away from the world on my own piece of property, and then just die in peace. I have a feeling I’m walking in my father’s footsteps. What we both wanted was just to retire, and have a nice piece of land and property. That’s what I really want. To get away from everything, and not have to worry about anything. I suppose that when that is what you desire, you’re always bound to be disappointed.
As I said, I’m not quite sure where I stand as far as a resolution of ethical issues is concerned. A part of me thinks, in some ways, it is easy. That God, who is good, will take care of the bad. But I’m also skeptical of myself when I start to think religiously. I’ve thought religiously in the past, and it only made things worse. I’ve developed new religious thoughts over the years, and I’m more prone to a “lasseiz-faire” attitude when it comes to religion. I don’t particularly care. Things don’t bother me as much. I just accept things as they are, and I feel content (which, I think, is the point of religion). But when evil is staring me in the face, it’s much harder to keep that attitude, and it’s much easier to want to do something about it. Even if there’s not really anything I can do about it.
I’m a “big picture” person. A “philosopher”. I want to understand meaning. And I want to understand the meaning behind our existence. A meaning to all of the arguing, and all of the evil. I can’t help myself, even if I’m incapable of grasping it. I don’t want to sit idly by, and say nothing, but I also don’t want to have a mental breakdown due to not being able to figure out “the problems of the world”. Currently, I’m in between these two, leaning more towards the “mental breakdown”. I’m confident that, one day, I’ll know the answer to this question, but at the moment, I can only find myself asking: “What’s the point of it all?”
I want to write something easy. So, that’s what this is. It isn’t particularly meaningful, or profound. But at least it’s something. I want to write something. It’s odd to want to write something that isn’t meaningful. But yet, here this is. It’s so much easier than writing something meaningful. It isn’t as meaningful. But it’s easier. And it’s writing. And I’m crazy.
I desire to make this longer than it currently is, so I’m adding this. Once again, it isn’t particularly meaningful. But it’s easy. And so, here it is.
I wish I could stop obsessing about readers. Readers confuse me. I need them, but hate them. But I don’t want to write about them again. But I want to write something. What direction am I taking this? Why do I enjoy this? Why do I enjoy fucking with you, the reader? You’re expecting this to go somewhere. Or nowhere. Which one will it be? Only one way to find out.
Oh, look. Here’s where it goes. Is this what you were expecting? Yes? No?
What about now?
What in the fuck am I doing? Why do I enjoy doing this? Is this good or bad? Smart or dumb? Where are we going? What am I doing?
Why do I enjoy messing with your head? Are you messed with?
Why is it easy for me to mess with your head? Where am I going with this? Why do I want to write when this ends up being what I write?
Why don’t you care?
Why are you continuing to read?
Why did you stop?
What point am I trying to make?
Why do I need to make a point?
Why have I decided to make these separate “paragraphs” all of the sudden?
What does any of this matter?
Does your mind feel messed with?
Am I clever, or just mentally ill?
What next? I’m running out of ideas. But did I even have any to begin with? Is this a character’s monologue in a fictional story? Is this about me? What isn’t? Did I mess with your head again?
What would I even call this? Is this funny? Is this good?
There’s no point to this. Or is there? Where am I going with this? Why does it continue? And why does it continue…to go nowhere? Why is this fun for me?
What do you think of this? Why do you love this or hate this? Where am I going with this?
This is so much easier than actually making a point. “String of consciousness” is easier, even if it’s worse.
But is it bad? What is it?
It is easy. And it is writing.
And it is done. Sadly.
What’s next? Wait, is it done, or not? You’re cheating. Looking to see how much is left. Did I lie? Or tell the truth? Why are you reading this? Why did you stop? What’s the point of this?
Am I done? Or not?
There has never been a better time in my life for me to write than right now. Everything is falling into place perfectly. I’m more mentally developed than I have ever been since I wanted to write (I know that may come as a surprise to many of you. I must’ve set the bar pretty low). I’ve wanted to write ever since I was a child. I had visions of aliens in my head. The physical act of typing itself makes me happy.
I’ve had my personal demons to fight. Many of them have retarded my writing throughout my teenage years. I’ve lacked confidence for a long time. I’ve always been afraid of appearing like a “smartass”. I’ve never had a good “support structure” to be a writer. In fact, I feel like many things have been stacked against me as a writer. A naturally anxious disposition. Religious upbringing. Living in a constant state of guilt for any self-perceived advantage I had over any other human being, including being able to calculate math, or write decently (sorry, King. I like my adverbs greatly).
But I have realized that the biggest hurdle I have had to overcome over the past several years was my education. After reading and listening to many very intelligent people for the past, at least five years now, (mainly political and economic thinkers), as well as developing my own personal philosophies, I finally feel like I have “some grasp”. Sometimes, it feels as if the majority of my youth was spent in boredom. I enjoyed play, but boredom bothered me more than anything else. There was seemingly never enough stimulation. At least, stimulation I was into. I’ve always been interested in philosophy. And no one is interested in philosophy.
My anger and resentment at my lack of mental stimulation bothered me all through my teenage years. I had thoughts, and things I wanted to say, but no real way to say them. I mean, who was to say that I wasn’t crazy? That I wasn’t wrong? I couldn’t bounce any ideas off of someone without them dismissing my ideas as “a waste of time for someone my age”, or any other dumb thing you could think of. So, I continued to wait, waiting for that appropriate mental stimulation that struck my fancy. Here’s some things I’ve written about reading.
Clearly, we all have personality traits that just seem to stick with us all of our lives. Yes, we all change drastically, from youth to geriatricy. But I think it’s safe to say that we are born with personalities beyond our controls. That we just have certain natural traits that we’re born with, and these stick with us forever.
Some traits that I have seemingly always had is the desire to think philosophically; the desire to write; and the desire to make others laugh (I’m not going to go into the negative ones in much detail in this piece, but second-guessing is also a pretty strong one, as I reread this entire piece over for a second time). Maybe not every child is born a philosopher (although I’m not sure about that), but almost every child is born a scientist. Luckily, I grasped language pretty easily early on in life (thanks, no doubt, to my parents’ genes and patient laboriousness) and reading was fun for me early on. At least I’m not illiterate. I have wanted to be a writer ever since I was a child. But only when I was twenty did I ever really start. And that was five years ago. Yes, if you feel you must stop reading due to “how young I am”, “how pretentious I’m coming across”, or anything else stupid you feel you must say, then do us both a favor and stop reading right now. Why should you care what I have to say? You tell me. And if you can’t, then don’t bother reading this. It’s not my job to tell you the value you should find in my words. That’s for you to decide for yourself.
Language is a struggle for me. I often find myself not wanting to sound smart for fear of isolating people who will think I’m a “smartass”. But then, when I do want to write, it’s dumb and repetitive. But I don’t even really like communicating. I mean, I like this. But why? I don’t like you. I don’t even know you. I have no idea who is going to be reading this. So, in a sense, why should I care what you, the reader, think? And, therefore, why should you, the reader, care what I think? And thus, my philosophical nature I previously discussed becomes evident.
I sit and think about these things until my head starts to hurt, and then I pretend to be an idiot for my own amusement and bewilderment of others. Until that becomes too stale, and then I come back to this dreg. Once again, I am thankful that I’m finally old enough, and at enough of a mental development to at least organize these thoughts into words better than I have been able to do in the past. I’m pretty happy, things are good in my life for the time being, so I’m in a good frame of mind to write. And because I know this window isn’t going to last forever, I know I need to write now, right now, because I will never have an opportunity like this again. This may be the first time I’ve ever really realized this fact. But I’m not going to take any chances on the possibility that I’ve always had this time, but never acted upon it, and am instead going to assume that the only time I will ever have to do this is right now simply to make sure I get it all done.
I’ve been seriously writing for five years now. I wrote some really bad fiction that I need to edit, I’ve written some articles that I’m proud of, and I’ve written countless jokes that I love. And nobody gives a damn about any of that. And I’m finally able to accept that. I have wanted to “prove to the world” what I could do for so long that I’ve been stuck in a “me against the world” mentality that’s only left me angry and frustrated. Entitlement? Sure. Honestly, I think it was lack of organizational skills. I know I can write. It doesn’t matter if I’m not King or Rowling; I can write, goddammit, and it doesn’t matter what you, or anyone else says, I can fucking write. I’ve always believed this (although, as I have gone about writing, I have noticed glaring shortcomings), but I’ve spent a lot of time trying to prove to others that I could actually do it. Stupidly enough, this mainly involved not actually doing the fucking writing. Why would I spend so much time proving to people that I could write instead of actually fucking writing? Well, because the writing at the time was bad. Is bad. I know it’s bad. But the problem is that deep down inside of me, I know I have potential. And that scares the fuck out of me. I can’t afford to fuck this up. I have spent years and years developing personal philosophies to a point to be comfortable enough to write something like this. Thinking about readers, and how to deal with criticism that is either valid or invalid. How to deal with historical authors who I think were great, but who were overlooked, or misunderstood and miscategorized, and how I would react when it happens to me. I want to know these things, or at least think about them. Because I love doing it. But it’s hard to put these things into words when you don’t have the language skills to do so because you don’t like reading and you don’t like talking to people and you don’t like listening to people. It’s really hard to write when you’re like that, as I am. I don’t consider it a “problem”. I have just needed to find a way to do it that feels right for me, and that involves copious solitude, and reading and listening to people a hell of a lot smarter than I. And, after five years of doing the latter, and only recently being able to do the former, I’m finally ready to try to write something like this.
If you’ve read anything of mine before, you may think it’s repetitive. It probably is. I’m probably just elaborating a little bit more than I did previously. But, once again, I really don’t care if it’s repetitive. I really don’t care if you hate it. When I’m happy, it’s done, even if I think it’s shit later.
Why am I writing this when no one is going to read it? I want to discuss how my brain thinks about big subjects on a wide scale, but I’ve already written about that. Am I just trying to get the world to notice me? Clearly, that’s a part of it. But I haven’t completely developed my writing style yet. This is what I’m working on. Ok, let me write some things. Are they repetitive? Did I elaborate? Or regurgitate? The only way to figure it out is to just fucking do it, even if I’m afraid I’m adding nothing new than what I’ve already written at this point, so that’s one thing I’m trying to do in this piece.
Honestly, I do want readers to care. But, I don’t care if they care. Honestly, what I’m trying to say is so obvious that I don’t even want to fucking say it. It’s annoying. I hate unironically repeating myself. But, of course, I need readers, because I need money. I’m not good enough to get money yet, but I need to write so I can get better so I can get readers. So I need to fucking write. And, here we go. Here’s some of what this fucking dreg is all about. Practice. Goddamn, practice. Where are my thoughts going with this? Where is my editor? Somebody get this motherfucker back on track. He’s a trainwreck.
I don’t even want to have anything to say right here. I just want to fucking write. I just fucking love it. I don’t give a fuck what I say. That’s why this piece fucking sucks. I don’t care that it sucks. God dammit, I just want to fucking write. Write, goddamn you. There is no better time in your fucking life to write than right now. Why in the fuck aren’t you writing, you dumb piece of shit. You have all the fucking time in the world to write right now, and you aren’t doing it. Because you know you suck. Because you know you aren’t very good. Because it’s hard. Weh, what a little baby. What writer didn’t have it hard, you whiny, entitled piece of shit? Holy shit, you’re talking to yourself in third person. The readers are really going to think you’re crazy now, huh Cody? Oh my God, you wrote Cody. Holy shit, you did it again. Now you’re writing a repetitive, annoying joke. Holy shit Cody. Where are you going with this? You better fucking make up your mind. You’re losing them fast- oh wait a minute, they aren’t there *cackles manically*
[losing my mind feels so goddamn good]
Now you’re interjecting your third person narration by breaking the fourth wall.
Once again, there isn’t really any point or direction with this. I know no one is going to read this. I can look at my reading stats and know this. But I don’t fucking care. I like it. It’s funny. It’s not King, or Rowling. But it’s literate. Maybe you’ll like it. Share it. “Oh man, have you heard of this crazy little kid writing?” “Man, this entitled shit thinks he actually has what it takes to be a writer. Wait until he’s 40 years old working at Walmart. He’s gonna wish he chose a different career.” “His writing has no coherency whatsoever. What in the fuck is he thinking? What in the fuck is he trying to say? Why in the fuck is he writing?! He could be doing something more productive. Learning a skill. This hobby isn’t ever going to make him any money.”
Once again, I know I’m not a Rowling or King (even if I can’t help but feel like, deep inside, I have something; some potential). But I’m a writer, God dammit. And that’s what I’m fucking doing right now, regardless of how fucking bad it is.
I don’t give a fuck anymore what you have to say about how bad it is. Any of you, hypothetical people, or “haters” from my past. I don’t care if you think I sound like Eric Harris. I just don’t give any fucking shit anymore. I have to write. And if I’m going to write, I might as well try to piss you off, so fuck you. I hope it does sound incoherent, and crazy. Makes you worry about my sanity. Because you’re a fucking moron, and I know this. So it doesn’t matter how little my words make sense to you, because you’re a fucking moron.
God is great, God is good, thank you for putting me in a shitty, small stupid town.
Confidence, Cody. You need confidence. You need practice. You need more thinking. Learning. You need it fucking all, Cody. You need more courage. You need to be more crazy, and insane, and loopy, and funny. You need it all, Cody. You need it all. You’ve been doing pretty good so far. Granted, no one knows who you are, and the people that do can’t stand your fucking guts. But you’re doing a pretty good job so far, Cody. Keep it up. You’ll show them all one day or die trying, and it honestly doesn’t matter to you which one happens first. And keep talking to yourself in third person: the readers love that.
…Damn, this was pretty fucking good, huh? And it felt so natural too. God DAMN humor comes easily for you! Good for you! No one fucking cares but you, you dumb little shit. You dumb little narcissistic, bipolar little shit.
Thanks for reading.
This is why I never fucking write and why I fucking love writing all at the same time.
How do I end this goddamn piece of shit, making sure I have said all I want to say.
I’m going out of my fucking mind.
…That sounds good.
Also, I’m socially anxious, and have no idea how I’m going to handle the fame that I’m going to have to have if I’m ever going to turn my passions into a viable career, so I don’t know how I’m going to handle that.
Just laugh at my problems please.
……….That sounds really bad.
End on a happy note.
(Wrote this in just a few minutes to brag. I mean, I guess it’s a selling point, so I’m going to use it. “You narcissistic, entitled prick!!!”)
There’s never enough alone time
Even when by the self, there are voices
There are voices needed for stimulation
They talk vain words
A momentary distraction
From the work that lies ahead
They foster the imagination
Rev up the dreams
The crash comes in waves
The hopes, and the dreams
There’s never enough alone time
When left alone, one can think bad things
When one is left alone, the faults magnify
The doubts, multiply
But the people do not satisfy
Their voices ring, echo in the head
There’s no escape from the madness
The boredom seeks them out
And they satiate
But there’s a longing for solitude
Being left alone
With the dreams and the demons
The ringing in the ear grows louder
The self-doubt, past mistakes
They haunt and taunt
They eat alive,
It creates a longing
A longing for success
A longing to make up for past mistakes
Is the proper equipment had?
What is the difference between today and yesteryear?
The faults talk
You are all alone
No one else can hear the faults
The sword and shield come from within
The drive, the dreams
You’re all alone
Amongst the moat, and the echos
Cursed to an existence
Of communication conflict
So little satisfaction derided from the words of others
The mind, it wanders
Through the millennia
There are no coping mechanisms
There is no help
It is just you, and your sword and shield
There is no perfection
There is injustice
The war is, ultimately, fought alone
Things must be fixed
Changes must be made
Growth must be experienced
The voices aren’t as deafening
Now, they make more sense
God damn them, they make more sense……
The desire to be alone
And the desire to express
The fears still remain
There are reminders
No matter how much you run
They are here
But so are the dreams
One can be driven mad
When one is alone
Perhaps one desires to be mad……
I think I do
The voices are quieter
The self-doubts evaporate
Until the time comes
But you are left
You finally have
The peace and quiet
And battle your demons
The sea of your mind is unexplored,
Hardened by myths of old, grizzled sailors
The stories, though untrue, still instill fear
The time is now
To set sail
And forget the past
The time is now
To get lost in your mind
In complete silence and isolation