want

Hello friends. You’re welcome to subject yourselves to more rambling, though ill advised — seriously ill advised. I mean if you read the thoughts of another enough they may infect you. I’m just accruing notes but maybe you’ll enjoy the aimlessness.

Anyways, time waits for no one, or you could argue time doesn’t exist if you’re immortal. Maybe most of the time — with all the neurotic ways I maintain, eating only up to five vegetables and a particular water all filtered, air filter, preservation irony chugging along, I’m well aware — maybe still I hope I could find some sliver of immortality.

Because then I wouldn’t have to chalk up how inaction is still action. I wouldn’t have to confront this lack of desire and the shame thereof. Most of all, I wouldn’t have to disappoint anyone that ever associated with me. But I must I guess.

Do you know how much of a buzzkill you are if you can’t eat out? You may as well be dead to everyone around you. But that’s how it is, and yeah maybe I could loosen up — and I would if it would do anything. But I’m still staring out the balcony.

I don’t know what I want. You’d hope it’d be obvious — and it seems everyone’s got their interests. I don’t know if I have any interests of my own, seeing as all I’ve done is lived as a chameleon.

I may have some opinions about programming but that’s the same as discussing hammer grips: you just don’t. And I may study some languages but I realize the useful uselessness of it, distinct from useless usefulness — this implicit that by learning a language you’re better off. I don’t know.

I may write on this website but I don’t know: I’ve already demonstrated something strange by deleting the websites 5 times now. And I’m well aware that I shouldn’t expect anything else, at least at this place.

Anyway, I don’t know what interests are. Some could argue it’s writing, but you can’t just enjoy writing honestly — you need something to synthesize at least, whether travels or neuroticism to which I’d suggest the former even though there’s the dead insect underbelly we’re disguising and hopefully these affiliate links work.

I flipped through some journals. Roughly 8-10(?) years ago I wrote something like this:

I was fuming all annoyed thinking how I never wanted anything. And yet in a way, I am more free than anyone else will ever be.

It was strange, in that the only reason I never wanted anything is because I was no longer there, anywhere I went. […] The wants tumbled in after I placed myself there. I felt like I could finally do something: enjoy myself and continue to find ways to preserve that enjoyment for others.

Isn’t it crazy to have the same issue several years later? I had it all figured out and written but after I wrote it, I remember reading the entry and not getting it. So I went comatose trudging along and now we’re here.

I just want to stop being a observer. I want the next action to mean something, contribute, not to gratify myself like I’ve done the same as most. I’m tired of gratifying; it gives me despair if anything if I flick on some anime. Everything feels so distant from me all the time, some fish lens.

So I guess that’s why I’m struggling with writing lately. It is the observer’s role after all. I’m not even sure what I’m noting down, and maybe it leaves a trail and evidence, but it’s a lifeline from sinking into comatose again.

So that’s why the hollowed businessman route seems to work, halfway. People that use the product, well, I guess they also trade in tokens of meaning for a moment. That’s why I debate whether or not to make another product, some neocities spin off, because then it’d be a breather of a moment where you aren’t staring at the storefront glass reflection reading others’ posts as reprieve — for a moment that glass could shatter and one could rearrange the mannequins before snapping it all back into place. Or one could find some sedation in a larger bottom line, I guess.

Maybe I’ll make a youtube, maybe I’ll make this alleged neocities alternative, maybe I’ll continue to form and spin off some writings because it helps with the neurotic ticks — I don’t know. I wish it was more clear; I wish I knew which would be impactful, or have actual returns. Then I feel all guilty about not increasing the bottom line of the current business.

Out of curiosity I opened up an old Notion account I created when I first started working.

Fact is, honestly, I mean the answer I found is to just delete the self, that’s the only thing that works,but if you’re feeling frisky you can get real ethereal about things, e.g. something like what I wrote ~6 years ago, reflecting on distance/connection:

It’s hard to say there’s any room for us to spend time together anyway, with the Job and all. I’d hate to have someone ring my doorbell. I think these things and yet, so willingly, throw away my time into the Internet. In a way, our time is devalued already by how easily in touch we are with others. There’s this idea that you can always catch up with someone, so there’s no need to. Then you’ll find yourself surprised when they change phone numbers, or worlds.

Or some contemplations on this corrupted self:

I was always fascinated with those that seemed to stand alone. A lot of those I came across — this may be a projection — seemed to be derivatives of what they thought they ought to be interested in, rather than borne of genuine interest. A compromise on who you are, because the potential collectives around you are stunted in breadth. In this world, you have the same selected interests. Travel, foods, video games, anime, etc. And the troubling thing is that a lot of these interests are inherently consumer-centric.

Which leads into how most of my knowledge is just one-offs of shows I used to watch. When I wasn’t in forums I’d be in television shows, for they still simulated relationships and developments. An observer seat mistaken for the driver. Proxy development and success: a feeling you grew with the characters when it ended, when really you have changed nothing. […] The dominance of entertainment not just in videogames but in all other forms of life stunted me more than I can imagine. For when you exhaust all that you could of the ones you enjoy, you still find yourself the same afterward.

Or dealing with the melancholy, maybe due to realizing there never was “something larger” to contribute to with those around you:

I don’t know what makes melancholy so much more palpable. The years that came by make it a lot more obvious. One thing that gets me down is how I used to think people were with me, but they’re just along for a short ride.

I find it funny almost. I don’t know who will be in my future, but I think the weight I feel now could be dislodged with someone else new.
I don’t know who’ll be new enough to eclipse this melancholy.
I don’t have any ‘mys’ anymore.
What is there to own?

There are so many vague things about the modern existence that synthesize into this amnesiac flailing around desperation, which I wrote about previously on this account.

And despite it all, despite it all, and maybe I ought to abandon everything and seriously stop thinking — still, while I have to deal with this lower consciousness I do sometimes wonder that maybe, perhaps, a progression to sustain and a larger effect upon the reality around you to maybe hope that you are integrating and thus rising above your body seems like just another way to not feel like you’re on a treadmill.

I guess I at least know what’s next: making sure whatever’s happening I at least am contributing to some corpus or ensuring some neurotic dissolution.

I guess you can always just say this means something, too:

There is a continuity and imbued meaning in why we’re here.