Hello again friends. It’s only been a night, but I thought to write.
Well, it’s more like all I can do is write. It’s either write or work on things. I’ve been working on things this morning, it’s a nice change of pace.
I’ve attempted leaving all forms of instant-internet for awhile now, but this time feels different. I think it’s about tacit knowledge. I’ve written essays upon essays dancing around this dissatisfaction, but it never registered. I would continue to visit forums as though all the essays meant nothing.
But sitting here the other day and deeply contemplating how it makes me suffer feels like an open door. And you can walk through it too if you’d like. If you’d like to join at least on Neocities, all you need to do is install this and add this:
neocities.org
+neocities.org/dashboard
+neocities.org/site_files
For a final touch you can install this and block the view counter under the /dashboard. Just click on the droplet icon.
And that’s it! Of course, then you’d need to add all of the other instant-internet websites. I’ve added basically everything. Reddit, news, even youtube.com. There’s https://music.youtube.com as an alternative interface if you’d like to explore exiting youtube too.
Well, now on the other side, I’d liken these entries to paper trails. I also will admit that if I didn’t write in this way – writing letters to friends – then I wouldn’t write at all, probably. Journals have this tendency to focus on negatives. At least with a friend there’s an embedded restraint dearly needed. And I find myself better off, personally – hopefully you find some worth too, maybe. If anything, maybe it’ll encourage you to take changes you’ve been wanting too.
One may think of it as a negative, to publish anonymous letters. It could be framed that way. But seeing as it’s impossible for me to discuss anything in person, I find this to be a balm if anything. A dose of selfishness.
Because it is frankly quite selfish to write this way, with these borders and ramblings. But that’s okay – I don’t think selflessness is something to aspire toward, nor to entertain unless you are a paragon. Maybe you are.
You know, a funny thing about reading real-time ASCII is how quickly the mind fills gaps. To where the author becomes its own entity, separate from the hands that type it.
This property is impossible to avoid I think. You are always writing your own tale, subsuming your sections-of-self. This is why I like writing in this (self-indulgent) letter format, as it prevents the darker sort of digressions. Delicate balance in all things.
This world I’m in now, past the open door, feels like the ending of all things. Of course you could hear the trite saying, “endings becoming beginnings.”
But I don’t think there’s enough weariness about beginnings. There ought to be a lot more weariness.
See, most addictions and downward spirals were only beginnings. People often mourn the ending of things, failing to give credit to its origin: the beginning.
There is no heartache to endure if you don’t germinate heart-felt beginnings. There are no withdrawals if you never had a taste.
If one wants to find the source of any pain then the investigation needs to start at the beginning, not the end. Simple questions like, why did I let this into my life? Not, “Why did it end?” – questioning the beginning may lead you to realize that it was going to inevitably end no matter how much you tried otherwise.
Sustainability is a virtue worth shooting for, I suppose. Taking the aggregate of one’s actions unveils one’s future in most cases: may as well choose the sustainable options.
Do you think reading this is sustainable? I can only comment on writing it. If I take the aggregate of these letters (however many are left) I would say there’s some fruit still laden. Because I may find another way to suffer through these. Maybe it serves as the outlet toward what is becoming an austere life. It’s best labelled as a staircase. And once I reach the top floor – in due time – then one can demolish any trace left. Seeing as I’m still climbing so these letters serve their function.
Dwelling in the ending of things leaves a sort of familiar emptiness. Becoming pneumatic – I really do feel a strange sort of hollowness, but it’s not dark, rather a portal of something more. I guess that’s how instruments feel. Only by removing all of one’s innards does one have a chance toward pretty sounds. Does the heart of the former tree line itself along the fretboard? It’s probably one and the same.
One thing that helps with endings is understanding you can always begin again.