I was just preoccupied with life and jobseeking (I know - I'm almost 30!) and whatnot when upon a boring, super sunny day, I realized that I could just... write.
Write about my thoughts. About nothingness. About nothing and everything at the same time. No pressure, no thoughts of "personal branding" or giving away "useful tips" for making money. Just me and my feelings. I realized most people don't give a shit anyway, so why bother trying to impress, you know? Express, don't impress.
I kept an online diary. Not blog. .doc files of my daily documentation. But they're no fun. I know that it was just me talking to myself; no one other than me would be reading it. And it felt like work everytime I open one of those.
Maybe the thrill of keeping a blog has always been the prospect, no matter how tiny, of someone else who might or might not read everything that you wrote. With all the sadness, the emotions, and the cringe.
I joined a 30-days writing challenge back in January, where I had to write consistently everyday for a month and upload the writing on Instagram. It was held annually. I don't think I did really well, and I've skipped every other day or so, but by now I'm beginning to think it's just me holding myself to an impossibly high standard, because I've joined for three years and I got a feature each year (where they re-post your writing on their account).
Not gonna lie, it did make me write more consistently, albeit not everyday, but... to what extent? I reminisce on the entire month. Did I have fun? Maybe, for a bit. Did I get a lot of likes? No, not really. Did I pour my heart and soul into each piece? Not really, because I had things to do alongside the writing. And writing? on Instagram? I was at the mercy of their caption word limit and limited selection of semi-decent representative pictures to upload.
So I began to wonder, what is the point anymore in me writing, if I don't have fun with it? If I can't properly express myself? If it doesn't make me money nor bring good reputation?
Is this just a struggle that I need to go through because my brain cells are beyond fried due to exposure to all these short-form contents? Or is this just indicative of writing no longer being the relevant media for my expression? Am I regressing towards the state of a boring adulthood?
I'd admit that I've also been having difficulty reading. Especially classic literature where they put their entire heart, soul, and extensive ancient vocabularies rarely seen or heard today into it. Where a whole page is filled with description of the setting, and nothing really *happened* until the next chapter.
So, yeah, attention span. Big deal. I have to work for it. Except it's hard. The platforms are out to get you. You practically can't live without your smartphone. Neo-capitalism in place. Efficiency towards dehumanizing progress. The world is in shambles. Idiots in position of power. And they keep getting away with it.
Anyway, maybe this is in part the fact that the more adult you are, you're more responsible towards more things. Things in the world. Things that happened to you.
Often times when I'm journaling, I couldn't really figure out what to write about. It felt like nothing of importance happened, yet in retrospect I have done a lot of things. Meetings are things too, but they're not that exciting as a written experience. I'm constantly torn between micro-archiving every miniscule things and only exploring deeper into the most exciting stuff.
So I haven't been writing; like really writing. Dedicating a time slot to just sit down, focus, and type away to process whatever happened to me. But I know it's necessary. Because sometimes I don't even register that I just went through an extensive job interview until my boyfriend asked about me the day afterwards. Could be the jobseeking burnout, too. Or maybe I'm just losing my mind.
It feels like I'm constantly disassociating. Floating through life from one trivial event to another, not knowing where to go. The light won't guide me, and I'm stuck here forever. Like the ghost of a successful past, treading the eventual downfall of my virtues. No job, no money, nothing.
And yeah, writing used to be a solace from this feeling because at least I'm connecting with myself, one step at a time. But now, it doesn't feel like that anymore. It just feels like a waste of time, and I'm still miserable by the time I'm finished. I hate that I'm feeling like this. Writing is supposed to be meaningful. Not always fun, no, but meaningful.
A lot of things had happened since I last updated here, yet I'm having little to no brainpower to express them all.
Thanks for listening, for the time being. Hopefully I'll be in a better headspace the next time you see me.
Cheers.
-T.
