Nipping at the edges of when nothingness is seemingly a thing

> I ask myself when my blogging is at it's most fucking > prolific. Only in melancholic moments with undertones of > sexual frustration do I even seem capable of noticing the > crevices and chasms supposedly in my life.

“Melancholy” long seemed closer to “real” to me, to the point that favorite songs were the melancholy inducing kind, e.g. “To Wish Impossible Things” – The Cure.

(Ohmygosh.. I'd completely forgotten about “Melancholy Man” – The Moody Blues)...

But that was longish ago.

These days the feeling is closer to “How could it matter?”, which can go a variety of ways, e.g. “Why bother?”, “Why not?” But the last several months it's felt more like the latter, so it seems like it doesn't take much – e.g. a couple hundred meaningfully arranged pixels – for a chomping bit to magically appear.

> Remove ego from my writing and nothing will be left. Remove > ego from my personality, and still you will have nothing.

Speaking of suddenly at least superficially relevant ancient pop songs: “Nothing From Nothing” – Billy Preston

> Some people have mentioned that blogging these days > sometimes feels like writing into the void. I can tell > you that is not true. The fact that I know people have > mentioned it, means that I read their posts. There's not > much interaction with posts, because there's no comments > system yet. But people are reading your posts, especially > if your posts show up on the Read.Write.As feed. That > I think is one of the benefits of this “writing” > platform.

I occasionally imagine I'd want more interaction, but often enough realize I'd not have time for it anyway – or not time to “do it right”, at any rate.

> I basically decided some years ago, around 2012, that I > would just blog until I die. I know I will write until > I die. That's one of the beautiful things about being a > writer is that it isn't very physically taxing so I don't > have to stop when I am 60 years old, or whatever. But > as long as there is Internet in the developed world – > I'll blog.

Me too – not to mention happy to know I don't have to stop in 1.2684931506849 years.

> When I finally caught myself I was shocked by how > easily I had become distracted. Why did I need a white > background? All the walls in my house are white. I already > had everything I needed to take the photograph for this > essay. In the end I altered the colours two a two tone > orange and purple to further push these demons out of my > head, and individualise the image a little more.

<sarcasm>It's hard to beat the joy of thinking.</sarcasm>

> Quite simply: my brain was craving that little jolt of > endorphins built into each of us when we ‘treat’ > ourselves to something new. It’s time for me to admit, > I’m addicted to newness. Our brains seem wired that > way. I’m living my life moving constantly from one new > thing to the next, quickly tiring of the last great new > thing I bought. What’s worse, it’s getting more and > more difficult to feel excited about new things. That > little jolt becomes more and more difficult to trigger, > requiring a more extravagant purchase each time.

No point sweating what's wired a certain way – unless sweat somehow has the power to alter wiring, of course....