I was once told that writing is the most solitary occupation in the world. It seems that when you write so much, time becomes almost entirely irrelevant, and physical interaction with the world seems almost pointless when you have a computer or a phone.
For some reason, writing is one of the few things I can do regularly with little to no exhaustion, as long as I write what I want. Naturally, I became addicted to it. Articles, poems, messages, posts, and shares... I create because I don't want to feel like a leech, sucking on my nation's welfare.
I already wrote two articles today and a final chapter for an old project, and yet I feel as if I didn't put in any energy at all. I begin to think, "Do I even need the physical company of others, when all I can have is more and more words for company?"
How irrational of a writer to even take seriously the notion that he does not need the company of readership... How irrational of me to think that I do not need at least a woman's touch.
Yes, I think I'm addicted to writing. It is the only thing that makes me feel truly meaningful to the world. I stopped going to university because it was too stressful, stopped going to job interviews because I realized how worthwhile the internet is. And I almost never needed a social life. Asociality exists.
It seems that my loyalty to writing has truly made me a hermit. I only need some breaks here and there to refresh myself. I very rarely need physical contact or meetings. I just need a screen in front of me, and I can dance the waltz that is my socially-barren life all the way to the inevitable death that awaits us all.
Writing philosophy is the only thing I'm honestly proud of. Everything else seems so distracting. As long as I'm awake, there are new possibilities to explore and new ideas to look for or create. It is the only thing that makes me feel accomplished. If I waste a day without a purpose, not even for recharging, that day is gone forever.
My motive is a certain woman. She called me irrelevant, so I decided to make it my life's work to prove her otherwise... I eventually succeeded. I thought it would take far longer. Fortunately I was wrong.
After all the dedication I had for her, the world may be unjust, but at least I did my part and am bringing to the world more good. It is far better than seeing her deluded, thinking she was right about me.
Once she was wronged by reality, it was then that I will bring forth the fact that I am Mr. Tomasio, the article baron.
Piece by piece, post by post, share by share, I will release one piece of writing on each social media platform every day, minimum. I will do my best to contribute to the world and thus prove my worth to it, to myself, and to her false confidence. It will then be when I can be closer to the possibility of dying peacefully.
Why am I writing all of this again? It is all I can think about... I live to work, not to live.
A family member almost died a few days ago because they needed surgery, which they got. Thinking about them, it could happen to me. I have a purpose to serve, and that purpose is my contributing addiction, which I can bring to the world as optimally as I should.
I don't care how much I have to walk to spare myself the same risk. I will do it if it means I can write more and more and more! For contribution! For benefit! For the world!
I will die anyway, but not until I make every day of my life worthy of the writing "gods"! It is the only thing I can do without succumbing to exhaustion. The only thing I will probably be remembered for in this world.
Not even video games or TV make me this passionate nowadays. I guess I don't care if I don't get to live this life to its fullest, if I don't get to know true love, have a family of my own, or have a job outside my own business.
I have become a slave to my own purpose, and to be honest, it is far better than falling into nihilism and being at risk for existential dread. I've been there before, many times, and unless you're completely apathetic to nihilism, then purpose might one day save you from harm to your general well-being and functioning. For some, purpose is a safehouse, for others, it is a necessary evil, but for me, it was Tuesday.