Saturday, June 04, 2022

3936 : Writing

Writing is a strange preoccupation. 

I dont write on paper, I write in electronic shards ("in" not "on").

There is this deep sense that none of the writing would ever matter. None of me would ever matter. One day I will be gone, and with me goes everything about me. That sword of ephermereality makes this world a very bizarre experience.

Its like walking into the male toilet of a hotel. Use the urinal, pee, wash your hands, and you are out. Neither do you remember the urinal, not the toilet has any memory of you. You crept in, and faded out.

There is no more - no afterlives, no meaning, no purpose, and absolutely no larger ecosystem.

How is this connected to writing? Well, I do wonder, then why do I write at all.

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