This took me a long time to realize. After years of exhaustion, I finally came to the realization: to hell with you. Not in the literal sense. I don’t want to see your body eviscerated and cast into the lake of fire. I’m not even sure if I’m really that mad at you. I’m just mad at myself. I’ve spent years hoping for you to like posts, share my articles, and comment how much you like my crap. I made drawings, crafted written pieces, even designed t-shirts. But you really didn’t care. Maybe you’d like a post about a shirt I made, then when the shirt had arrived you decided you didn’t want one anymore (or never did to begin with). Or perhaps you liked one of my drawings one time and never looked at them again.
But this isn’t about you and being a terrible friend or fan or whatever the hell we think social media has transformed people into in relation to others. This is about how I hate that I cared what you thought; that I thought you would somehow become invested in what I was pouring my soul into.
We are selfish creatures. To think I could pull you out of your own selfishness to assuage my own is asinine. It’s just more of the same. I’m just shoveling crap into your feed and expecting you to take it as gold, sharing it with the masses.
I wanted to go viral. I wanted to be a sensation. I wanted to matter to you and yours. I wanted to leave a legacy in a culture that just wants to be sated for a brief moment before the next photo posts. And that’s stupid. It’s all stupid. I kept making things to make a statement or get attention for a brief moment. And in that brief glimmer, the glimpse into the machine of the internet, I found the hollow manifestation of my own self-confidence. My confidence was anchored to my soul and pulling me down with every post. Like whispers in a machine shop, my posts were drowned out by the mess; and it left me feeling empty, without friends. Screw that. And the more I tried to get noticed, the less I felt like myself. And the less I was noticed, the more I realized that I would never be noticed as I sat in the silence of my unliked post. To be in an echo chamber by yourself is to be in an asylum, padded walls and all.
So to hell with you. I want to enjoy what I do. I want to write because I enjoy it, not to make it big. I will never live large off my writing or my art or the rest of this crap. But if I’m going to live with myself, I need to stop living off of you. I have to love what I do. So I’m going to write to satisfy myself. I’m going to write things that change my heart, affect my soul, and make me fall in love with life.
I’m not going to share this with you. I won’t post it on Facebook or Twitter. It’s just going to exist because I wanted it to. Because that’s what writing is. It’s the physical manifestation of my ideation, and it shouldn’t matter what every one else has thought of it. If you find this, then maybe you needed to.