I’m getting tired of writing about the thoughts on my mind the way I’ve been doing for the past 400 vomits or so. (Somewhere between 30% of the time to 70% of the time. I’m not sure, I haven’t exactly been tallying this carefully.)
Part of this is straight up boredom. I’m tired of reading the same old shit. And even now as I write this I’m recalling that I once wrote a vomit titled “sick and tired of being sick and tired” or something to that effect.
But I think the more important part is– I’m starting to recognize the thoughts of my mind as products of my past. They’re sort of… legacy issues. I’m still thinking old thoughts, in an old way, somehow. They’re suboptimal.
A part of the motivation of doing these vomits was the belief that I’d have a bunch of written thoughts that I can subsequently analyze and make sense of, and do therapy with myself. I think the first part of that goal has been achieved– I think I have a large enough body of work about my own thoughts that’s ripe for me to analyze. I just haven’t really done the analysis yet, which I am now committing to doing concurrently as I write 1 vomit a day.
While that’s going on, I think there’s also a sort of ‘dangerous’ situation where– the more I talk about my old thoughts, the more I keep them active and alive. When you truly quit smoking, for example, you shouldn’t be spending all your time talking about smoking. You should be pretty much indifferent to them if possible. They shouldn’t bother you, you shouldn’t need to care about them. Maybe I’m being overly idealistic here.
So… for the time being, my old thoughts are in semi-cold storage. I won’t indulge them by recreating them over and over again by writing about them over and over again. I might write some meta-analysis about the older vomits.
Well, I don’t know. As always, I never quite seem to be sure of what I can trust myself with, of what I can promise myself. This is something that needs to change.
I was quite productive at work today. I was making a deliberate effort to measure and manage my time throughout the day. It was interesting. I took longer than I thought I would’ve (to write a substantial blogpost). I suppose on hindsight that’s completely unsurprising. I chronically overestimate my own ability to do things that I haven’t done before.
Ugh, even now I feel like I’m just writing stuff I’ve said before. I know, I know, everything is a remix. I was just thinking earlier as I was in my kitchen about how I’m either going to answer the questions I’ve raised in past vomits but haven’t answered yet, or go all out different and maybe start writing short stories and fiction within this very word vomit project. I haven’t quite figured out what I want.
Deja vu– the last time I tried to figure out what I wanted while putting myself on the spot in the context of a vomit, I was stuck, too, but I ended up writing dialogue for the next few vomits after that. I think that was in the early 300s. What will I do this time? My subconscious will think about it. But yes, let’s make that a rule. I’ll go through my old questions, answer all those old questions, but beyond that I’m really going to try not to bother writing all these…
Uh, again halfway through a sentence I find myself thinking that doesn’t quite feel right. Groping and stumbling everywhere. We’ll find our way through.
I know it’s not in my place to write big grand theories of the world and so on. I’m actually not all that interested in Singapore’s general election 2016, while I was so crazy about 2011. Why? Am I for real when I say that? Will I flip flop about this once the election actually comes? I don’t know, but it’ll be interesting to witness. I don’t think I’ll be writing blogposts the way I did back in 2011, unless there’s some issue where I feel like I have a unique and valuable perspective that I can share with minimal effort on my part, that would make a difference to people.
But even that’s really just entertainment and distraction rather than some sort of civic duty. Saying things like “my country needs me” is not very verifiable. I mean… sure, my country needs me… I don’t know, man. Everything is made up. Everything is imagined. Reality is that which remains when you stop believing in it. So what do I believe? I don’t know what to believe anymore. What do I care about? I don’t know what to care about anymore. The last time I felt myself thinking these thoughts, I was feeling really down, really in a funk, almost depressed. This time I’m thinking these same thoughts but with a light, airy sort of indifference. There’s a space for me to navigate around all of this, and I can do whatever I want. BUT I’m limited by all these basic silly little appetites and bullshit. I’m limited by my constant craving for useless information.
Why is it that if something is true, or real, I have some sort of impulse to go and share it with somebody else? Why can’t I just embody whatever is true, and enjoy whatever is real and true, for myself, and show it through my work? I think I can. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. I’m just overexplaining myself because I like the sound of my own voice, maybe. Which I’m sure is something I’ve said before. And is always rather ironic to bring up in the context of a writing project. I’m not going to stop my writing project until it’s done, so at worst we’re going to have another 550,000 words of me talking about how much my talk is worthless.
Well, if that really turns out to be the case, I’m sure it’ll put me off worthless talk for the rest of my life. Whatever. I’ve committed to this and I’m seeing it through. There will be serendipitous good things coming out of this that I can’t anticipate yet. And even if not, fuck it, there are stupider things to commit to.