I need to write to feel alive

It’s hard to remember what I used to sound without AI, sometimes I feel like even my inner monologue comes with a ‘How can I assist you futher?’ question, but I can’t escape it, I can denounce it. However in the end of the day it’s all over: it’s in the wedding speech your friend made, its in your instagram feed in the form of creepy looking baby oranges and it’s in the water you drink it (and definately shouldn’t).

Today I was listening to ‘No Longer Human’ by Osamu Dazai and I remember the instagram reel I saw recently about how we are walking carefuly to a version of Newspeak from 1984. How can we, in less than a 100 years, went from being able to potray the complexity of lacking human emotion while making a character so sympathetic and for some sick people (me included) relatable. How are we walking towards a form of speech that 20 years ago would be considered a disability?

And then I remembered, I had barely writtien anything in two years. I mean, I write, for work, but never for pleasure anymore. Writting used to be my most defining trait, I wouls spend hours in front of the computer writting my life away while being irresponsible. I can barely finish an article for a newsletter now. My inner voice had been replace my a mirage of thoughts that I never care to organize anymore because I replaced the joy of writting with work and barely considered adults responsabilities. Maybe it’s the fact I’m getting into my thirties and real adulthood is calling, maybe it’s because I feel like I have no real voice in my own world.

In my own world, oh yes, I’ve been a mess. I’m holding a gun agaisnt everyone in my life, because I don’t have an outlet that’s mine alone. I’ve been living in the activities and approvals of friends and family since the last great tragedy that haunted my life of my boyfriend getting something I wanted. I feel unheard both at home with my family and with my friends. I feel like I make only sense to myself and I, that people ignore me simply because they don’t understand me, maybe I’m giving myself more credit than I deserve and I’m not the whole genius that I think I have.

But even if I’m not and the only voice I can make sense of and doesnt annoy me is my own I have to listen to it, I have to use it, something I haven’t done in quite a while. And when did I use it more than in uni?

Ahhh uni, I still dream about those glorious days and the way I was back then. The worst parts of me back then somehow got worst, but my creativity and art somehow evolved…All expect writting.

Before I moved to London for uni, I asked my mentor, my literature teacher, to give me a list of books to read, everytime I finished one, I would write a review about it and send it to him…This was almost 10 years ago. And I was never that educated, well read and spoken. This is what I actually want back from that time! Not the parties, not the cheap wine and definately not all those men that made me cry. I want my writting and reading skills. They are my true voice and I want to be able to sit down, write for an hour and feel better about myself.

Even if I writte about an apple, I no longer feel sad because my dad left. I writte it in my own words, the sound of my own voice, that may be chaotic, that may not make sense for the bigger part of many, but that inspires me.

Creativity comes from boredom, and we are living boring times. It’s easier than ever to create something but nothing of value is actually created. I want to writte feelings, I want to read books and tell the world how they made me feel. And above all, I don’t want to lose my words. I want to be able to argue with my friends until they understand me, I want to tell my boyfriend I love him everyday, I want to wish my mom good night every day.

And to do that, I must read. I must read in order to feel, in order to express.