Writing is fake



I write less than I used to. A snarkiness grips me sooner. Perhaps I’m getting old. Perhaps something in me is saying no. Or perhaps writing simply is fake. The act of soaring in the skies, disconnected from the world. Pretend play. Mental gymnastics for the sake of itself. Self centered, ignorant. Devoid of texture.

Stop writing, start doing. Stop reflecting, put it out there. Know what’s better than pictures of puppies? Puppies. They are real.

Do, feel, think, loop. Action first. Then texture. Then reflection. Repeat.

Humans are attuned to the real world. Humans are attuned by the real world. Devoid of texture, we perish. Let’s not perish.

We love to cooperate. No, actually, we don’t. We often hate cooperating. But we love ideal cooperation. When everything flows, and everything is meaninguful.

Cooperation is real. Others are real.

“do, feel, think, loop” behaves differently on different scales. Personal actions, personal feelings, personal thoughts is fast and fragile. Then bring in one person. Feel the pain as the ideal is cut apart. Pieces perish and die. Others remain. The piece that bent when others broke is stronger. It stays. One idea.

Or one starting point. One map. One frame of mind.