I'll revive the journal thread. You can talk about anything really, just start writing and stop whenever you feel. How does writing make you feel, /lit/? Does your opinion of your writing directly inform your opinion of yourself?
Nice trips.
I get constipated and procrastinate about writing a lot, being afraid to sit down and try in case nothing comes out. This happens a lot. But then when I get inspired, or just force myself to sit down and write... it's like the keyboard is a piano, energy like melodic water flows down my arms through my hands and fingers and through the keys onto the screen. It's wonderful.
>>7997444
nice numbers
S'pose I'll bump.
I feel frustrated, to be honest. I always have trouble writing action. For example, writing about someone running in the woods as it's happening. When you write in (for lack of a better term) present-tense like that, all action must be implied. You can't just list off everything that the character in question is doing. You have to dance around that. You really have to be clever about it, too. Otherwise, it gets much too repetitive.
Then comes the all-important question: assuming anyone will ever read this, will they care at all whether it's repetitive? Will they even so much as notice the clever methods one has to employ in order to write in this way? Why am I doing this right now, and who am I doing it for? Me, I suppose. But it's only every once in a while that I write something and enjoy it. Even when that happens, a day later I feel embarrassed about what I just wrote. Despite all this, I'm just so compelled towards it, and don't know why.
>>7997444
Sophia (That ineffable feminine) is tickled by my naiveté, she asked me in a dream "are you winning the game?" (presuming my activities to be some sort of game, how pretentious). My activity is as serious as the most serious activity that you can possibly cogitate (no, even more so). My activity is a force which the sirens have mastered by song (that consuming privation) which echoed in his bones and caused Odysseus to foam at the mouth and, if it weren't for the cords binding him, he would have slain every one of his men to attain the answer to his relief (synthetic privation being the product of synthetic activities). I sympathize. My activity (and subsequent privation) has proven to be synthetic like his promise of a revealed future; it has been (for all memorable years) to rid my body of the greatest privation caused by the greatest activity of answering the greatest question cogitable(even more so), that is, "what is life?"
I realize that there is no satisfying objective answer to the question of "life." Sophia revealed to me that any description is only illusion, merely analogy, one dream compared to another. (A cup is "like" a cylinder with a hole. Or. a cup is "like" a hole with a half cylinder wrapped around it. You are like a tiny spec when compared to infinite time and space in the universe. Or. you are like that which the universe can only produce in the most perfect circumstances in infinite time and space. Energy is like mass multiplied by the square of the speed of light) Analogy describes a thing by reference to another thing, and that thing is rooted in the reference to another thing, and that other thing can be divided infinitely by analysis (there are things all the way down), there simply is no satisfactory way of pinning down the question of "life" with analogy. But Sophia, in her infinite mercy and wisdom told me that in reality life is simply, and only, like "being conscious," and the one and only thing that my consciousness can be compared to is "your" consciousness. So the most meaningful thing that can be said about life is that "it is conscious experience." And the most meaningful answer to the question of "life" is found by experiencing it through consciousness (right now, in all that "is." The past and the future being what "is not")
She told me now (that I have become bored with my game) to become wise, and I must obey my dear Sophia (off I go)
True art speaks to part of you that doesn’t exist-- the part you force into the world everyday; giving light to the dusty corners of your moral compass. It bathes your soul with the light of love you neglect it, filling you to the tip until you can’t help but burst. Radiating it forth into the world, as it can not be helped. And this. This radiation is what gives life to life-- essence to presence. For humanity is surely born of mineral and dirt, yet only rises by the sun. And through this radiation, and this radiation only, lies the true tendril of immortality: love is remembered eternally, until eternity ends.
>>7997935
>Sophia (That ineffable feminine)
feminine what
>(presuming my activities to be some sort of game, how pretentious)
not as pretentious as you
>My activity is as serious as the most serious activity that you can possibly cogitate (no, even more so). My activity is a force which the sirens have mastered by song (that consuming privation) which echoed in his bones and caused Odysseus to foam at the mouth and, if it weren't for the cords binding him, he would have slain every one of his men to attain the answer to his relief (synthetic privation being the product of synthetic activities). I sympathize. My activity (and subsequent privation) has proven to be synthetic like his promise of a revealed future; it has been (for all memorable years) to rid my body of the greatest privation caused by the greatest activity of answering the greatest question cogitable(even more so), that is, "what is life?"
lmao calling someone pretentious and then this shit
fukken awful
>>7998001
>doesn't get the irony
git gud pleb
It's hard to feel anything at this point. I don't know if it's because I'm sleep deprived or something else. My brother died a couple of years ago. I felt sad about it every once in a while, but for the most part I just didn't feel anything. We weren't on the best of terms, I suppose. It just feels like I should be more upset about it.
Now, whenever I read, the words fail to communicate. They're just a sea of Is and Ams and inverted commas. It's hard to attach meaning to them. It was much easier before, but now it's like I'm looking at a picture of a book, rather than reading one. The only words that seem to communicate to me are my own.
Birth(Hell): This will be the life I have to live.
Mid-Life(Purgatory): This is the life I get to live.
Death(Heaven): This was the life I got to live.
I suppose I should grateful that I'm not struggling but it certainly makes motivation difficult.
I have passions certainly. I don't really have dreams though. There's nothing wrong but I feel uneasy trying to think about anything long term. So instead I love each moment not doing anything and slowly things will move past me.
I even have it written on a post-it note, "Do something, just something". And yet I don't.
Boring and aimless, the tameness of my life is unmatched. Simple, straightforward like a thumbtack. I desire colorful, fruitful goals, but in my daily drudgery all I find is emptiness; holes. I wish to be a farmer, at peace with the land. I wish to be Drake; to be his right hand. I fear for my countrymen and the negligence of their health. It's outstanding. The apples in the grocery store are a year old and still sell. How could this be? 97% of us don't get enough Vitamin E yet we got flatscreen TVs and browse the internet while we pee. How could this be? It's unsightly. I ask myself to create a better world, nightly. But once morning comes there's nothing different said or done. We go about our lives working for fun, but that fun never comes because our work causes our fun to become undone. Maybe one day we'll be at one with the sun. Til then, I proclaim myself pharoah, descendant of Ra. How I long to be a leader, a God. Fuckin dubs check em.
Within this trash, soon to be clouds of gaseous brains. (We must avoid this in the future at all costs, provided we have a choice.) I now know, it is the ladder that will climb me out of this trash and into the recycle, yet I will not climb the ladder. The recycle: determinate and understood, having an end that is not fogged over, that is easily manipulated, in its geometric structure and measurable proximity. There will be others waiting there: the others that have yet to find the ladder, that struggle to climb it. They will want to know how I did it, and it is now that I will be able to tell them:
"You already know how, for it was you who lifted me up this ladder and into the cycle that you should now realize you are in, with me, and I love you."
(Feel like I should make it shorter but stronger) Any tips? pretty shitty i know already.
>>7997611
Just letting you know I did read this. And I have an immature understanding of exactly what you are talking about, but you already know that.
