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║      Not Wanting to Read       ║
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Posted: 2025-02-16 1:30:05 AM
Updated: 2025-02-16 1:53:24 AM
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I don't know how to describe this, but every time that I learn and read a book, I feel that I am not really gaining that much, even if I am. It is not that I do not know how to read. And it is not that I have not been reading books for so long.

It is just that right now, after all this time, after having spent so much time not only reading, but writing, having written 2.2 million words in less than 2 years—I feel like I should not read books.

To explain, I am not saying not to read books literally and absolutely. It is more so that we have only such a short time in this world. Why spend all one's time reading if just one book in my room is around 400,000 words? It is not bad to read. It is more so that the world is not about completing things. It really isn't.

So the best thing to do now for me is to do what I've always done—do what I can. If not reading means that I feel much better and feel that I am not getting sucked into a world that I will never truly understand, then so be it.

If sitting down here and writing about this helps, then so shall it be.

It is not necessarily about writing. It is more so about the fact that in the end, we will all die, and we will not be able to read and write everything. In fact, that goes the same for others, because no matter how much we write, more than 99% of all people alive right now will never read it. Even if I become popular, the fact that I have only read Stephen King's *On Writing* goes to show that popularity is so unpopular. 

The reality is that the only thing that I can do right now is live with this incompleteness.

"Oh, you watched too many movies!"

"Oh, you walked too much!"

"Oh, you travelled too much!"

"Oh, you stayed inside too much!"

"Oh, you wrote too much!"

"Oh, you did not write enough or at all!"

And on and on.

There will always be something wrong with one's life, because indeed, the grass does appear greener on the other side.

A prolific writer may think that his life is not all that great, and someone else may wish that they wrote all the time.

I was thinking about the fact that my life was enough even when I was just playing the snake game in my mother's old Nokia phone. I enjoyed that and found that pleasant, and I would play it while traveling and even at home when I was not using the computer. Children today may think that life was boring back then, but the thing is that everything was real, conscious, and alive. We were just so much more aware of how awesome phones were, but children nowadays are not privileged enough to know life outside the internet. So they perceive all life outside it as deficient, lacking, and boring.

Anyway, the point is that my life right now is just as much as my life was back then. I am still here, conscious, and alive, as much as I was back then. 

Even if I had 10,000 videos from throughout my upbringing, the reality is that it would still never feel totally there. I would still feel like there was something off and that I have forgotten something or some detail.

It never truly ends—the never-ending desire for more. But my journey ended long ago. There, sitting down and playing with my mother's Nokia phone, that was enough, just as much as today is enough. The journey for more has ended for more than a decade, and the journey on which I am right now is not a journey for good enough. It is just a journey of being, and there is nothing much to say about that than what it already says itself.

But at the same time, I cannot help but recognize that I will always feel like something is missing. And it is true. There is always something absent. That book is not yet mastered in my mind, and there are hundreds and thousands of books yet to be read, each of them being more than 100,000 words long. It is a never-ending thing, and there is never truly a point where that feeling of something being missing ever ends. The forest just grows more darker, vaster, richer, bluer, and more diverse, never us finding a spot where we can truly rest, until we are dead of course and unaware of anything at that point.

The reality is that that image of a fantasy marketplace, or anything else really, will never find a point of completion, regardless of the descriptions sieged against it in hopes that it be captured and resolved. It is never done, always seeking more and more, because that is life—never to be fully seen and divulged.

The autobiography-journal feels like a failure, but it wasn't. It really wasn't. 

Even if the entirety of my life demands still so much yet to be identified, tabulated, classified, categorized, illustrated, modularized, and delineated—I've already written 2.2 million words. How many more words until it is done? It is done. It has always been done. But it will also never be done.

That is the point of all this, and even that idea of a point is precarious.

That is why my fiction writings often tend toward an endless ambiguity. That is what I feel, and this is the result of having written millions of words in my autobiography-journal and coming to the repeated realization that there is nothing concrete to be said at all. Even the ground is suspect.

This is an example of how I've begun to write in fiction:

One step down the road, clocking again, the same feeling, irreparable. I reminded myself daily. The feeling. Healthy. Weight. Underlying. Something about the moment differed. Little touched. Little expressed. Little damned and put together. Forging. Seamlessly. Finding place, not deciding. Something about the trees loomed. Occurence upon occurence. Odors and smells, feelings dispelled and brought back again in endless looping. Feeling fear. Foolish thoughts. Trivial shenanigans. Demands. Weight. Gold. Feeling. No. Summer.

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