Just scattered diary stuff

So many people are talking and saying so many things, that I stop talking, and listen only. Consume only. And even don’t think my own thoughts all that much, just react to other people’s thoughts.

Ah. So the solution must be to stop reading and listening to other’s thoughts once in a while (not stop completely, of course) and start writing about my own—add to the conversation, contribute, produce, don’t only consume. But then there are even more voices in the fray. 

And it’s not like I have no faith in the value of my own contribution. I’m sure my contribution would be lovely and fine. But not that far above most educated people’s contributions. And so many educated people with such good thoughts are already contributing.  

I don’t really have faith in the value of my contribution in the current context of blogs articles social media posts videos podcasts lengthy comment sections subreddits everybody’s conversations ringing in my eyes and ears and brain.

The thing is, most people have a valuable contribution to make to some conversation, somewhere. And the conversations are all everywhere.

I’m mostly thinking of word spaces, but art spaces seem similarly cluttered. Fuck, actual space is cluttered. Too fucking many people in the world. It’s exhausting.  

It’s possible that I have a need to be the only one at something. I’m a niche-finder, and there aren’t really that many unoccupied niches. So possibly I should abandon niche-hunting? Abandon the hunt for recognition? It’s not like I have much hope of being recognized as anything special anywhere, at anything. And I’m not saying that in a depressed way, necessarily. But the part of my life where I was chasing ambitions is over and I’m slowly realizing I need to figure out what to do now, what to do next.

What do I do with my gifts? I know I have gifts. It’s actually all I have, really. Well, I have survival. That’s what my life is mostly aimed at—working for the man who gives me insulin for free. He’s not a bad man, ok? There are much worse men. They’re mostly politicians, I guess.

Aside from survive, what do I do now? It’s fun that my life is ahead of me, but also depressing. I don’t see any uncluttered space to grow into. I’m very entitled, to think that I should get that.   

....

But this is all the wrong question, the wrong orientation to the world. Well, maybe not WRONG exactly, but not helpful. Because maybe it doesn’t need to be about what does the world need? Which space is open and waiting for me to fill? It’s about—what do I need to do for me to be whole? What is it that me at my best is doing, when I’m in flow and fulfilling my reason for being? And what comes about is incidental. It might receive recognition and accolades, and might be so many undiscovered piles of dust, but what does it matter to me, if while I lived I really lived. (She said after writing several bars of music.)