Debris of Daily Life

Written Nov 2022:

It was like there was a soft realigning of the neurons in my brain that resulted in a realization that there doesn’t need to be a “point” to being alive. Plenty of things are born and die without ruthlessly pursuing a reason, a point to life, but we value them nonetheless. I can’t possibly make myself matter to people I don’t know. I can’t possibly make myself into a creature that people care about. I don’t want to sculpt myself into something that is digestible, a pill of my being. I want people that I know in person, and already care about me, to think about something and smile when they’re like, “Oh, man, remember when we went to this one place?”

I can make ten billion things and put them in ten million places, but people won’t know me, people don’t know me, won’t ever know me.

What matters is my own experience. Am I enjoying myself? What will I wonder about in the next few years and regret? I should do them. I want to do them. To poke my nose out and do shit!!

Everything I make is for me and everyone else is happenstance.