Typed from a handwritten spurt of thoughts. I am an inconsistent person. Sometimes, I prefer writing on the computer, other times the traditional way, like now. For this to work, I have put my phone away, somewhere out of sight and far away enough to deter me from retrieving it unless I really want to. Man, I guess writing on paper does feel good, except for the massive amount of waste every time we dislike what we wrote.
Speaking of writing, I believe, mechanically, I’m not half bad. That is if I can focus my energy in a single topic. Then, I can effortlessly churn out a short essay in 1-2 hour. Not bad for someone with below average grades in High School literature, right? My biggest problem, of course, is the ability to get into said flow. Every time I start, there’s this inertia weighing down on my brain, like an old machine refusing to start. But once I’ve started it gets easier, for me it is like swimming.
Recently, I have been thinking about writing and publishing more. Well, not recently, writing has been part of my fantasy life for a long time. Yet, like any other hobbies of mine, I never built up the patience to practice and perfect it. This impatience tends to happen more with individualistic subjects, such as swimming, running, and especially writing. I don’t feel the same amount of inertia for social activities such as dancing or singing.
I guess in my brain, everything needs to have a purpose, and mostly I derive purpose from social interaction – or perhaps more accurately social approval. Anything where my achievements are instantly noticed, praised, or deemed positively impactful on others, I’d feel inclined to continue. This creates several problems. The first one being getting discouraged. Many hobbies I have are like on-again-off-again relationship. I sing well – not the best, of course, but well enough for the occasional performances, but I only get seriously into it a few times in my lifetime. I also enjoyed endurance sports and do decently, but I also lose interest every other quarter. Consequently, I also love writing- the way I am doing now, but I only write when I’m thoroughly sad and even then only write what immediately on my mind.
Perhaps I am destined to be decently good at a variety of things, but never enough to do anything with them. Perhaps that’s my curse.
But then, I think to myself, why would anything needs to be for any purpose? Isn’t life extremely simple? We just need to eat, sleep, breath, fuck, feel loved, etc… Why are we all sucked into the rat race of spending more and earning more? Why do any of my hobbies need to have a purpose, be it earning money or getting me closer to a self-development wonderland? Of course, being a student of Economics, I recognized this as the makings of the capitalism’s machine. Capitalism – or more accurately neoliberalism – was built on the assumption of the ever-growing economy. To achieve that, there is an overwhelming force to push everyone into the whirlwind of labor and consumption.
For about a month, from April to May this year, I tried to resist – or find ways to resist – this sandstorm, by stocking up on post-capitalism readings and subscriptions to anti-work forums. There, I saw the oppressive nature of our system, I saw the insanity that is our modern life, but frankly, it only pushed me further and further into depression. At that time – and even now, wallowing in demotivation, I wondered if it would have been better for me not to know. Now that I know everything I ever fought for has turned out to be bullshit, it feels like a void has swallowed me whole from the inside. Buddha taught us that to know the truths of life is the key to end our sufferings. Why did it torture me so?
Against this perpetual machine that is capitalism, I don’t stand a chance. So, that’s it? I just have to accept this and continue working away my short years on Earth?
Maybe my life really has no meaning, at least not in the way I had thought. Then, it should also follow that anything I do, be it writing or swimming or running, needs not have any purpose. I have no idea how this understanding may help me climb out of the hole my consciousness dug me in, but that is my conclusion for now.
Nguyễn Minh Hiếu (Nicolette)
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