I'm feeling a lack of confidence right now that I can create anything that will have any impact on anyone, at least on a scale that I want it to have an impact. I have a lot of misguided ideas that have a strong hold on me.
One of them is that technology is spiritually cancerous, similarly that actual cancer is somehow spiritual as well and that carrying technology can summon actual cancer. And I have my laptop resting on my chest right now and I carry my cellphone in my pocket by my dick and balls all day long every day.
The main thing I feel is confused. Another thing is I feel afraid and dissatisfied. I can feel the good things too but they fade and though I know all things are temporary and that the bad things fade just as quick as the good, I get impatient waiting for the bad to recede. My heart is fluttering a little right now thinking about these things.
I'm not sure where creativity and inspiration come from. Maybe from a place of hope though it also has something to do with connection to some greater force. I think the force is both inside and outside simultaneously; it is and isn't; it's everything. But weirdly it feels like trying to light a match underwater or something.
I can't see a future that I have a serious role or stake in. I worry about the purpose of art and storytelling when, in my experience, everything I see is so broken and points towards so many dead ends and down so many dark alleys. I think we might live to see other planets but the prospect isn't very comforting. I can't imagine anything scarier than making it to another planet, not finding life, losing all life on Earth and then waiting it out alone up there.
It feels like there's been a spell cast over everything. Like conversations and real exchanges aren't possible. I don't feel my mind rocked by new ideas, I don't feel like I'm evolving. When I start to feel happy or content I feel that what I'm feeling is actually entropy, a kind of complacency of spirit and a settling. What makes me think I'm not mediocre is perhaps a better starting point.
This whole entry is compulsive. I worry about my focus. Frankly, I worry about a lot. I worry that I want to destroy the good things in my life. I worry about my curiosity about things. I also worry about others' lack of curiosity. Recently I've been really considering that I'm going to die one day.
Weirdly, the best I can say is that I'm most likely going to die in the sense that we think of it today. Maybe that's me resisting it and deluding myself or maybe that's me being realistic. I feel afraid to write and create because I'm bound by a bunch of conflicting beliefs that I can't prove and that can't really be field tested.
If a God or a higher moral order exists I feel that creating things constitutes a moral action, good or bad. So the things that get created have a moral charge and my intention behind those creations is going to manifest itself on every level, micro and macro. The things my thoughts and creations come in contact with are going to be infused with my intentions by virtue of these created objects. And I think the world is overpopulated with objects like these on virtually every level.
Our minds are full of these objects in the same way an anxious man's mind is full of roiling thoughts, the same way suicide starts to seem like a life raft after you've been drowning for a while. If life after death does not exist and there are no inherent moral values and life itself has no inherent value then suicide is really no crime. It's not an actual crime and it's also not an ethical or cosmic crime by that reasoning.
Maybe it's a failure in moral reasoning to not think of the others who could be affected by suicide but by the same token, maybe it's a failure in ontological reasoning to assume that other people exist at all. Maybe it's all a projection like morality is, it's all just a system of organization that's run askew somehow.
Scarier still is the gut feeling that somehow and somewhere there is a divine light that we have somehow strayed from and that the objects of our thoughts are like clouds, a dense fog that obscures the source of all things. It's a fog that begets fog, it's a coarse smoke that starts wispy but gathers itself as it swirls, finds form in billows and waves until it's almost liquid, swallowing our legs up to our knees and filling our mouths with ash and our lungs with tar. We're drowning in it.
We have forgotten how to breathe. We're the germs that snuck in the ale and spoiled the entire brew and are now starting to rot the actual barrel itself. The constraints are breaking, all walls are falling. Language and its concepts are telescoping inwards.
Being sober doesn't help you live, it helps you feel the fear. Life is what happens after you feel the fear, I think, and not a moment before, really. Right now I don't really feel the fear. What I feel is anticipation, boredom, dread. Fear is a sign of life and this is not.
