I used to write to inspire.
To let other knows what I was feeling by painting scenic views with my words
So that they'd know they weren't alone
So they'd know that no matter what happens,
Someone else is alongside them
Even if it was some stranger way out in the big wide open world
But now I feel alone
Which doesn't make any sense because I have a family that I hand-picked,
And am almost never actually alone
And also doesn't make sense because I still write
Which, one would assume means I've encountered a solution to this issue
But the writing doesn't help
And the cigarettes stopped working
So I'm stuck
And the thing is, I keep reading and rereading my old works
And none of it actually helps
Even when I distance myself from the piece and read it from a new perspective I end up getting the question I can't answer:
Why the **** does it matter if we experience the same or even similar pains?
Who am I, to think my experiences are worthy or even meaningful enough to share and spread like a virus?
So why do I write?
I'm just some guy on the internet
A shitposter trying to squeeze some semblance of a serious tone from the internet
A mind screaming to have some form of deep, meaningful conversation with anyone
When in reality that doesn't matter to anyone
Because life has squeezed sentiment until it became a pebble being kicked on the park sidewalk
So why pick up a pen to write to a world that no longer remembers how to read?
It makes about as much sense as
Well anything really
Maybe that vague understanding of nothing making sense ever is my reason
Maybe I don't really need a reason to express myself
But *******, would it be nice