Nothing in Life is Pointless

"It was 2 in the morning and I cried because I felt like I couldn't relate to anyone anymore. And I neeeeever cry or get overly upset over things like that, it happens very rarely, and I remembered the point you made about having conversations with myself, and I grabbed a pen and a notebook and I wrote all my thoughts down, I wrote as if I wasn't writing directly to someone else, but someone was going to eventually pick it up and read it.

And it worked.

I wrote as if someone as stupid as me was going to later read it and understand, and for the first time in pretty much ever, honest words flowed out of me like water, like I was just so straightforward without being blunt or unfeeling, I didn't judge myself or cringe at the thought of someone actually reading it.

It was a change, and I only realised in hindsight, but reading your posts subconsciously made me want to write my own thoughts down. And it helped a lot. I felt emotionally freed up for the first time in forever, and I've felt just fine since.

I can't quite put my finger on it, but something about reading your posts, and seeing you churn them out day-in-day out, freed me up in writing my own stuff down. It's therapeutic to feel inspired by someone who you actually know and are friends with. Everyone else I look up to is so distant and successful, when I look around me, I'm just bored by everyone's brand of ambition - I mean, everyone's dreams are valid but I just don't care to hear about how my friend is keen to be a dog groomer, you know?

It's like, where are the writers, the performers, the artists, where are the hyper kids with stars in their eyes?

I feel all alone in that respect.

So when I see someone I know, a friend writing, reaching out to people, making art, it's the greatest thing, it's something I need in my life, and I always let them know how much I appreciate their dreams and their efforts because it's something that they need in their lives."

Just when I forgot the truth in the title of this post, I was proven wrong. Just when I thought that nobody else in the entirety of this world cares, or even aligns with my train of thought, I was proven wrong.

For months now I have written consecutively thoughts that I acquire on a daily basis and thoughts which work in turn to shape my personal identity, and I have begun to explore this literary version of my self, and I have begun to think and believe that there is nobody out there who can console my inner sanctity, who can see through my skin and see the coding which, when deciphered, reveals nothing less than extraordinary. And now, after sprawling hundreds of ideas, I have found that there are people out there who can connect with my inner psyche.

Writing is of importance to myself, personally. Before it was used as a form to shape my identity and to reach out to others, it was used as a form of practice so that I could render, enhance and finesse my craft in order to be able to, one day soon, write and publish a novel with ease. I do not write for this alone, though, I also write because if I do not have my daily outlet, my head cramps with ideas, ideas so strong that they leave me sleepless and they leave me in hatred of the world and everything in it because it does not understand me. By writing, I have found that I do not understand the world, and in writing I am taking steps towards understanding pieces of it while it understands pieces of me. My little thoughts used to have their hiding places on my phone, but now they leave my fingers, spread through the keys and dance like marvellous beings on my computer screen, reflecting into the eyes of others.

And it is these 'others' who keep me motivated, such as the one quoted above in this essay. This particular other said something which resonated within me, "where are the writers, the performers, the artists, where are the hyper kids with stars in their eyes?" These people are probably elusive, like me. They probably hide out in their homes, and are more secretive than Banksy himself. And it is not their fault, not at all. It is the fault of those "dog groomers" who place themselves up high on a capitalist pedestal and claim their ways of chasing materialistic objects out of plastics and metals to be higher than those who create abstract objects out of their psyches.  

I am not demeaning the availability or praising of material objects, or the people who do the praising and ensure the availability, I am claiming that in a world caught in a vicious cycle, exist people who have wonderful minds that are not paid attention to. Attention is paid more to women who bare parts of their bodies than women who bare parts of their minds, and being in a position where I prefer the latter, I am continuously deeply saddened. I have things to bare but I prefer the baring of my mind publicly to the baring of my body. I prefer the sharing of my intellect than the sharing of my genitals. I prefer the spreading of my wisdom than the spreading of diseases. And I am happy that I know people who share my preferences. I know too that there are other fellow 'hermits' out there who are just called 'hermits' because they do not abide by the status quo. They should not feel demeaned, rather proud, because at least the are nice and warm and surrounded by things that will never leave them like fictional characters rather than nasty real-life people who think that kissing and genital sharing in a club one night suffices as sexual pleasure.

I stand by my literary journey. I stand by my decisions to deprive myself from whatever it is that falls under the categories 'cool' or 'dope'. I appreciate that my writing has touched others, for there lies nothing but the betterment of selves from others. Nothing in life is indeed pointless, so long as you keep a life for as long as you can.