Significance of Me

11 Jul

I suppose I should just start this by saying that I don’t really know where this is headed, it is just another post that has no direction and no real intention, except for maybe some therapeutic venting (is that a real thing? it should be). This post is just another self obsessed post about myself. I’m actually really sick about writing my own life, it makes me feel uncreative, it makes, me feel conceited. It makes me feel stupid and childish. It makes me feel a lot of things a whole lot of trash, but still I continue to do it. I do it over and over again. I recently read a blog post, not sure whose or what the title was anymore, about writing about one’s self (I actually hate when people refer to themselves as one, will edit this soon) and in it the writer said it was something about finding a deeper truth. I guess it made sense, writing about myself is sort of a way to gain insight into my hidden feelings but does it serve a purpose? What is the significance of writing me?

What is the point of going on and on about myself? What am I trying to say about me and my life and anything in general when I write about myself? Surely there are more interesting things to say then: ME, ME, ME. Surely I can find something else, anything else out there in the world to write about. Surely there are thousands of things more significant then I am. I started this blog with the intention of finding an audience, of writing to people about things in the world that actually matter, of actually using my talent (or lack there of) to do something interesting new, exciting. But in the end all I used this for is to showcase my never ending self-hatred and need to change who I am. I use this blog as platform for nothing other than self-indulgence. I am getting so sick of singing the same note over and over again. When will I move from Me to Fa? And as a follow up question why skip Doh and go straight to Me?

You will actually be shocked to know that I’m kinda too embarrassed to post some of my poetry and short stories up here. I find them too self-obsessed. Posting those on my blog will make me feel like I’m way too conceited. For once I want to post something that isn’t about me but then again I always feel that people will hate those more than they hate what is already published on this blog. And there i go again, doubting myself, mocking what I have to offer this world. I am so sick of it. But mostly I am just so sick of writing about me. And here comes a follow up problem, I have this idea for a novel based on a short story I wrote. The story is about what a guy, me, experiences when he reads and rereads his suicide note, it then goes into a crazy conversation he has with Death. So my idea for the book is what this guy experiences in the future, and what it is like living with a chip (named Death) on your shoulder. I haven’t started work on the book yet, partly because I think the idea is too out there for the South African market and also because it would be another thing based on me. Could there possibly be a way for me to stop writing about myself? Why am I so frikken obsessive?

So to end off, this is another post about me. This is another post in which I can’t stop hating the way I work and think. It is a post in which I really ask, What is the significance of me:



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