Weekly entry

Sunday, July 1, 2018 8:58 PM

Feeling worthless again. Has been a very hard couple weeks.

Why does life feel like this constant struggle?

Sitting in my car before going back into my apartment and for a second I got a feeling about what it might be like to just feel at peace with life.

It was gone as so as I entered into my apartment. I have a roommate that I am close with, but they are often out, and when I enter alone, a wave of depression hits me.

But then again, when I’m alone and being productive and my roommate returns, suddenly I can’t focus as well anymore.

Does anyone experience this as well? Specifically the wave of depression upon entering back into your home? Sometimes I hate returning to my apartment. Why? I hate being alone? There are many times where I love being alone. But… I am definitely looking for a partner. Or at least I want a partner.

Gah I’m struggling to write, now, but I need to just keep writing. I want to find my voice. Eventually the idea is that I’ll stop apologizing for my writing and my feelings and settle into a sense of identity.

And that’s just it – so many successful people have this solid, stable sense of identity – of how they act around people, of what they do for a living, of what they do in their free time, of what they are working toward in life.

I don’t have any of that – the stability that is. I am always wondering about how I should act, what I should do. Maybe I am not so alone in this. Maybe I’m just jealous of those who have always known what they’ve wanted to do, or at least have stable careers, incomes, parents.

Ok I know I’m in complaining mode now, but I don’t care. I have this compulsion to just regurgitate whatever I’m feeling. We are in FMV mode – find my voice mode – right now. I do want to become a better writer. Best way to do that is to write. A number of people have told me to tell my story, and that I have a lot to say [eye roll] … [eye roll at the eye roll]. I’d like to do that. I would.

Do I want “fame” or anonymity? I think a lot of us have craved fame, but it comes at such a big cost of privacy. I want to be able to just explore and observe the world without wondering when I am going to be interrupted next.

Write and read. That’s what I need to do. Feels like there’s no time for any of it. That I’m just stuck in my terrible job. But hey, I’m writing here now instead of watching some mind-numbing thing on YouTube or playing a videogame.

Hate myself. But I don’t. Ugh. I feel like I have the beginning stages of schizophrenia sometimes. I hear my thoughts way too clearly, all the time.

I could rename this blog “cringeworthy”. Uggghhhh. There is nobility in the effort though. When will I be able to point to something and say, “Yes! That – that is not cringeworthy – that is worth sharing”? I don’t know. Why do I share these stream of conscious rants? Because I need a witness to my life. Some kind of witness. Maybe it’s related to the biological urge to reproduce / create and pass of genes / information – is the urge to reproduce in its essence DNAs “desire” for immortality? It knows that its host will eventually die and that it must survive somehow? Is me writing this and sending it off some form of wanting to be immortal? To somehow survive my death, regardless of how? Or is it just for attention (which could be argued is also related to reproduction?).

I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.

My goal is to try and get a post out at least every 2 weeks. Maybe eventually 1/week. I want to develop a habit of writing / publishing. And I do feel slightly better.

Recapping my last post, there was no engagement, ha, but that’s ok. The post was all over the place. I’m resigned to the fact that for the next few posts (and who knows, maybe this entire blog) will simply be an awkward cringeish stream of conscious that I will never read again and hope someone burns after I die.

Just one human trying to survive. Just trying to find a sense of peace and purpose. I find glimpses – not everything is doom and gloom. Some good things:

Free outdoor concerts | finishing a section of a language program | icepops on a hot summer day | running into friends | clean laundry | good coffee | a small bit of activism | family

Ok, until next time. MBM

Things are moving

Music: Dark Beyond the Blue, Hammock / Kids, The New Division / Requiem for Dying Mothers, Stars of the Lid

It’s 4am.

Should be asleep.

Feeling good.

For once?

Hyperbole.

Things are moving in a good direction.

Things are moving.

Things. are. moving.

And that’s good.

I am falling in love with life. Not just positivity. But with all its imperfection. With all its hope. With its struggle.

I don’t do enough.

I want to be good.

I want to do.

I want to produce.

I want to see results.

I want to look back upon.

Gratitude: Friends, Korean / Asian style karaoke, a new relationship – is this love? seeing an Instagram profile of 6 years of life and being inspired by someone who lives, and who must live for others.

Emotions come and go. Excitement comes and goes.

That’s all ok.

I have dreams.

All I have to do, all we have to do is not waste time.

Not. Waste. Time.

How do we not waste time?

Why do we waste time?

Because we are trying to escape the moment. We don’t value the moment. Beholding life, beholding the moment is scary. So we opt for the easy.

What’s the difference between needed rest and distraction, and wasting time? I think it varies from person to person, and moment to moment.

I want to make future me proud.

But now me is already proud.

Sad…regretful…but also proud.

Bittersweet.

Creating.

Producing.

Developing self-compassion. Self-love. Being able to be embarrassed at myself, but also make myself laugh and be proud of myself at the same time.

Real representation – getting the most popular, and the best ideas represented. Making it so that your vote does count.

He’s sitting on one side of the room, and his destiny is on the other side. The room is large. It’s filled with people. They are dancing in slo-mo. So many distractions. But he’s been to this party before. He’s been there many times. Now he’s curious about the door on the other side.

Beauty in the desire. Such beauty in the desire.

The voices of self-hate are slowly quieting. The feelings of capability, of independence, of autonomy and wanting to pursue my deep desire, instead of someone else’s, or get someone else’s attention are waning. Not caring about what other people think about so much.

All I want for

Writing for ½ an hour. I can do that.

Who wants to read the ramblings of a stranger?

Ok, maybe I do. Depending on what they’re talking about.

Loneliness. Isolation. Individualism. Collectivism. Our current dystopian world. Hope?

The body.

Existentialism.

Entertainment Addiction.

Attention Disorder.

What am I?

What are we?

Codes of DNA encased in a flesh shell. All that DNA wants to do is survive and replicate.

Is that all we are?

I am a recovering theist atheist. So for those of you hoping to find solidarity in faith or the beyond will not find it here.

You will find someone who struggles with:

loneliness and isolation

being overwhelmed by politics, wanting to do something, thinking if we got together things would change, feeling like it’s all hopeless

trying to adapt with a mind brought up to think in black and white, positivity, afterlife, everything has a reason that clashes with how things really are

still thinks there’s hope and it’s worth fighting for

Existentialism feels more real to me every day.

But E is nothing more than socially programmed humans who have a surplus of time living isolated, individualistic lives:

What do I do with my free time?

The culture of individualism is a culture of isolation / living alone – which leads to stress – which leads to addictions of all kinds – which leads to more isolation and feelings of powerlessness – and this cycle is how we’re pushed more and more out of power / how more and more voting rights are demolished.

One merger after another. We’re definitely heading towards the BnL Wall-E future. Maybe we’re in it already.

How do we escape?

Is it through intentional communities and cohousing? Is that the crux of all this? Shifting the culture of individualism aka isolationism to ‘cohousing-ism’?

The very thought of sharing my personal space with others makes me want to crawl into a hole.

“I’d go crazy” I think.

But I’m going crazy now.

That’s why I’m sitting on the floor of a darkened room with the glow of a computer screen as the only form of illumination. This urge to EXPRESS…this urge to express ME… to cry out…. am I… REALLY alone as I feel?

Seeing words materialize on a blank white canvass feels…comforting. So the very act of typing feels nice. I’m able to shape and create SOMETHING.

So why publish it then?

I am lonely and so are you.

I…. want it to stop and so do you.

I think.

The world as it could be. The world as it could be.

I was born into an environment that shaped me into an idealist.

Phenomenon after phenomenon.

Is there ‘a god’. Are we here for a conscious purpose?

While I ask these questions, I could be helping someone fleeing a country or someone who is starving. But I have the privilege of existentiality. The horror of the mind and the modern age of surplus time and isolation.

Existentiality is beautiful, but not at the price of inaction.

I know I am grossly misusing the term in a strict, academic philosophical sense.

“Existence precedes essence”

But as I lay on my death bed in 5, 10, 20, 50 years from now – at least I did SOMETHING.

I felt lonely. I moved my fingers. I pushed a button. And other people can see it. Hey, I feel that way, too.

Pointless. Hopeful. Maybe it’s a way out of my crippling escapist behaviors. It’s definitely an EB in itself. But at least it’s better time spent then watching another half hour of pornography or the next show on Netflix. It’s better than just being in a reverie of thought-mulling, a trance of rumination, where thirty minutes has passed and I’ve just been sitting on my bed, half aware of what I’m thinking and half not.

I struggle with this process of sticking my neck out. Of now being open to criticism.

You’re a fucking dumbass.

You’re a shitty writer.

Go kill yourself.

How EMBARRASSING. I feel so goddamn embarrassed for you, you fucking loser. You fucking piece of shit loser. Jesus fucking Christ you are a lost cause. You’ve wasted your life and now this? And now this?

Why in the absolute fuck are you putting yourself through more pain?

The pain of exposure.

The shifting judging eyes.

The flying thoughts of judgment like thousands of tiny daggers. The frown. The squint. The click. The turn. The forgetting.

Am I just attention crazed?

Yes. Yes I am. I am in desperate need of attention and that’s why I’m writing and posting on the internet because I have no friends.

(Well, I do have friends, but… I crave community. I crave community. And I crave a life worth living. I crave meaningful work. I crave doing something instead of caving into paralysis in the face of a dystopian society.) Boy, we’ve been fucking dystopian for a LONG ass time. Where the fuck have you been?

Grandpa, what did you do with your life?

Well imaginary grandchild, not fucking much. I did however, once or twice, be in just the right mood to right an existential, rambling blog post.

What I want: a variety of intentional communities (rural to urban) that shifts culture from individualism and isolation and addiction to healthy minded, diverse, and connected individuals who are aware of and participate in the political process, decentralizing power and resources, to create a stable, sustainable union with the planet and each other.

I want to love myself and have the courage to say what I want in front of others, and face the fear of criticism and backlash. I want to believe in myself. I want to believe in the goodness of humanity. I want to believe in hope and give hope a try.

That’s all I want.