I hate writing

Is there anything more grotesque and revolting than looking at your own words read back to yourself? How ill-formed and unceremoniously they flow, like hardened shit through a peep hole. There is no beauty in ones own words, it is like listening to your own voice - no thanks. Oh how others always know best, their prose and structure is like a god touched gift. I myself see only spaghetti tossed up into the ceiling fan, splattered across the wall - permissible as an absurd modern art piece perhaps.

Should this be a new paragraph? Should this be a new sentence? Oh no, that is too self aware. Of course I must modulate myself, forget myself, throw caution to the wind and let it flow, right? Where does that leave me but more blinded than before? And now I have used too many question marks, and again become too self aware!

Lets not get started on needing to have something worth saying, or why write at all? Surely the point of writing must be to convey the truth in our bones - but I have nothing to say - only the desire to say that nothing is worth saying at all.

Why can there not be a rule, a specific structure and guideline which prevents our gross ineptitudes? Then I could say what matters, and know it to be delivered with the necessary credentials, of one who knows how to write. For if I could just fill out a form, check my logic against the standard, then I would know for certain that I am not to be misunderstood. Ah, how great it would be to not have to question if I have missed some crucial step, some knowledge that is not shared equally amongst the whole.

Instead I am in pitch darkness, shouting into a void, dependent on unknown figures to confirm my sanity - that I have not gone off the edge. How do I know you are not insane yourself? Do you only echo my absurdities back, revealing yourself to be none the wiser? Shall I really rely on you to give me comfort?

I brush my teeth because it is good for me, so the dentists say. I seem to write for no reason at all. There is no joy, no health, no wealth to be gained. There is only a whirlwind of thoughts that rush against the edges of my mind, begging for escape, to see the light, so that they may finally rest in peace. Well have at it I say, it makes no difference to me.

All this is but a dream of sorts - do I believe a single word I say? Perhaps that is all I have, a figment of a story hoping for a breath of life to see its worth. I can mutter any phrase, put forth any sort of supposed meaning, any perspective, and for what? Show me the grand narrative that ties this all together, the great unity of the fragmented parts that reveals the truth incarnate in the depths of my soul.

Have I gone too far now? Have I lost all readers, have you imagined me insane as I roleplayed myself? This is why I hate writing. A scientific research journal makes sense to me, though I understand none of the words. But in writing I know all the words, but sense they do not make. There is only the absurdity of play here, the imagination of a child, going nowhere but enjoying the ride. But do I enjoy the ride? I type but see no image, evoke no feeling, produce no meaning.

Do not try to find a seed here, there is no life. These are empty words, hollow as an AI. I can only take comfort in knowing this shouldn't be read, for my eyes only - oh the self-indulgent irony of posting it all the same. Such is the fantasy I live, the dream that comes alive, that there is life in these words worth sharing. Only fate decides for certain, the extent to which I am able to claim such finality to my words.

In truth I must go back, to letting the AI rewrite all I say, only there does it convey meaning worthy of ones time. But here I let it be, as hollow as it seems, the truth I find inside me, of absurdity for its own sake, the final art form of the dying ages, where all else has passed, and left us with the husks of a life worth living. Such is one perspective, one train of thought, is it mine? I do not know.