Socialisation after a long hiatus from interacting with the world is a unique experience. It does put fear into perspective. Just the idea of a conversation is terrifying. On the other hand, you do get a rush from it. A conversation feels like doing a scary physical activity with negative consequences.
The hardest thing to overcome is your own imagination. It tries to construct worst-case scenarios that aren’t even possible. To be able to imagine all that and still proceed to leave the hermitage gives one a sense of accomplishment. A sense of accomplishment for what most of the population achieves without thinking twice.
It is a crippling state of mind, but the knowledge of it being so does not help. Only lining up the seemingly petty accomplishments reduces the nerves somewhat.
You tend to feel like a performer who needs to tackle stage fright. I don’t have stage fright, but conversations with people, especially if I want something in a practical situation at some service operated by people, are terrifying.
When the fields are ploughed, white birds come looking for worms. They appear out of nowhere, and they sit in the fields pecking at the loose soil. Other birds circle above them or wait in a tree for their turn. This only happens when the fields are ploughed. There is a time and place for everything.
I have spent almost two years in a room with walls painted blue. It was the time for a brief hermitage. Days were spent reading, thinking, sitting still, doing nothing. It was the time for sitting still.
Now it feels like this time is coming to an end. Solitude has lost its ability to nourish and comfort. Now it is just depressing. The time to go back into the world is approaching. I need to prepare myself.
There was once a man who became a wall.
His neighbour asked him, “Why did you become a wall?”
The man did not say anything.
He was a wall.
Words bounced right off him.
On to some real talk. Have you seen a giant snail eat a flower? Have you seen it gobble the whole thing and lounge there on the land as if it was nothing?
If you show the snail and the flower to a random person on the street they will, most of the time, say that the flower is beautiful and the giant snail grotesque. Some will want to eat the flower, some will want to fry the snail in butter, some will want to eat them both.
That the snail is a snail and the flower is a flower is important. But what does the snail make of the flower? Food. That’s it. What does the flower make of the snail? Not known. But we have an idea of what they make of each other. We think: the snail is hungry and needs food. Does the snail know it’s hungry? How much of our life is projection and personification? Are we attributing mental faculties to the snail that don’t exist?
What about the other snail on the wall where there’s only paint and no flowers? It’s about the same size. It’s not fatter or taller. Does it not hunger for flowers?
What about the flower? Is its life more important than the snail’s? Is it our duty to save the flower from the snail?
What about the snail then? If it dies of hunger, is it not our responsibility.
It’s a snail eating a flower. Poor flower; happy snail.
I truly do not know what to write. The thought of writing something for the larger public to read is a thought that terrifies me, but it needs to be done. Creativity cannot survive without sharing. So it will need to be done. A page written. Another blog post another shot in the dark looking for some way to do something.
Applying any kind of pressure on myself certainly does not work. It never has and it never will. The only way I am gonna be able to post on the blog in any way consistently is by making sure that I write about 40000 words in a day and salvage 400 pearls of wisdom from it. So what’s going on in my life that could be of any possible interest to anybody. What’s the way the wind’s been blowing what did I see in the world that is genuinely pissing me off. Or what’s beautiful and what’s happening in this world. Here’s a good one. What’s an adult? What marks the passing of the torch from the teen spirit to the adult? Is there some rite of passage that I don’t know about and I’m the only manchild running around in these neck of the woods? It’s a decent question but it’s a question I do not know the answer to. So should this even be a piece? It doesn’t appear ripe. But if this isn’t ripe then what is ripe? That is a good question.
See it didn’t work. I need to let it just flow out of me in any way it desires. What is it? I don’t know but I will know when I see it. And that is the fundamental problem of creativity: you never know what you’re trying to do before you’ve done it. That is a pain in the ass. Other than that the self-consciousness doesn’t help one bit. The belief that whatever you’re writing will be dogshit and people will laugh at you is another one you’ve got to be wary of. Otherwise, you can just be antisocial like me and forget that people exist. If they don’t exist they can’t laugh at your work. Unfortunately, the people who would laugh at my work live in the same house as me and that is a good thing because it also means that they will see none of it and they can’t make fun of what they can’t see.
Speaking of assholes. There was this guy his truck was in the middle of the road and it was dumping sand into a construction area but the truck was blocking the road and we had a roadblock for no good reason really. And speaking of roadblocks and assholes and the lack of freedom in this world. Consider the dog bound to a corner on the roof. That dog dreams of a leash-free life. But now consider the other dog on the street. Its leg is gone. It limps on through the traffic eager to find food. Which dog is better off? The emotionally deprived and chained dog who whines and barks on the roof all day or the street dog who can do whatever but has no security? Is any one of them better off than the other or are they the two sides of the same coin and why are animal problems so similar to human problems? It’s almost like, gasp, humans are animals. What a vulgar thought. Colonial-era brits would’ve got me for this. But it is what it is. All beings suffer. But we only know of our pain. And now I am cringe and new age and god knows what else. Maybe I just am a terrible writer but I am not so terrible because I predicted it would happen earlier so which one is it. Radadada that is the way of life here and all places else. I don’t really live here. My screentime till now is 6 hours that’s almost fifty percent of the day. So I’m only half here and chances are you’re also only half here so don’t be judgemental about me being disconnected. This is just fun. Shooting the shit. Having a good time. And that is why it is, for the most part, anonymous. It is by design so I can bin anything and deny the existence of any embarrassing posts.
Okay, white ants, white ants why ants and why white. White ants don’t exist, not really, they’re termites. Termites are sometimes mistakenly classified as white ants, but that doesn’t really explain anything. Let’s see, white ants are termites, in a way, and termites eat wood. Wood is the body and the ants are words. This is a reference to Sun and Steel where Mishima makes this very classification.
No, it’s not working. It has stopped flowing. The words are not true anymore; they feel made up. I don’t want it to be so, come on man. Just bring it in any way you want to bring it to a topic of some kind come on you can do it in a way.
Well fuck what do I know. I read it over and man it has some true energy ringing through the paragraph but it’s not enough.
Here it goes:
Ants, white ants, why ants and why are they white? White ants are not ants, they’re termites. This is a reference to Sun and Steel by Mishima. That’s all there is to the name and I don’t have anything to say.