So what is it that I’m supposed to do all day? I mean, I can keep on walking forever. Almost everyone else refuses to walk, they avoid it, they sit, they lounge, they drive. So who’s psychotic. The energy conservationists or akathisia.
I’m psychotic. I know that much. I’ve been told so, proved so. So what is everyone else?. They’re psychotic as well, wasting their lives away. I waste my life away. I think it’s unavoidable. stuck in modernity, stuck in this locally optimizing maximum. Modernity is not happiness, it’s not perfection, it’s not healthiness. We were made for walking by countless iterations of human feet. Not perfectly, far from it, but still, it was the benchmark for most of our body, and now we’re sedentary, complicit in modernity.
Everyone has vices to waste their time away. Gambling, drinking, getting high, watching sports, or reading. Writing even. Playing people, playing sex. Abstract hobbies far removed from the trying ticking of time.
I’m complaining about the world as a whole again. In some state of anhedonia where I can’t discern my real feelings towards anything substantial. Nothing I’m even writing, saying, stands up to half an argument. It’s the rambling angst of the creator, directionless, pointless, all encompassing. It’s the voice in my head that won’t shut up. It’s me, but in reality someone else, the entity feeding me circular thought patterns. Writing is my way to externalize these ideas, have them reach their pointless conclusions and be forgotten on another worn out piece of paper.