Skip to main content

Write For What

With the help of AI assistants, how you think becomes more important than how you write. Writing can be done by AI. So why do I still type every letter by my fingers, in the most inefficient way?

Unlike those natives, I do it in order to keep the language on my mind, because I have no one else or no place to use the language. I don't chat online, I don't leave comments anywhere, aka engaging with people. AI is convenient for commercial writings, an straight intention to earn money by views, engagements, advertisements, ect. I don't set up goals for gaining followers to sell them my sorrow or others' pain afterward, I don't feel joy in the spotlight. I simply like the process of typing words, I write for fun. It's my dopamine. I know what I'm writing is arid, and nothing of professional. But since there is no view, my words won't pollute anyone's eyes, no worries. 

I'm just nothing in the world, my illness, including my disappearance will not splash anything on earth. Feel free to do it.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Can't Hold Back

My Tears. I gotta cry, now. How many times? How many times have I told you to not cry when you thought of him? Look what you've done today! I warned you to hold back the urge to drop that broken pearl necklace from your eyes. Look what you're doing now! Crying your fucking heart out the same as that day in the city where you two met? You're not even in that town now! 10000km away from where you met. 188438400 seconds have passed since that day!  Allow me cry for ten minutes please, then, I can continue to numb my mind by the endless trivialities. Physical pain is the cure to that invisible yet so much more painful chat in my mind.

Blue vs Red

Two officially compatible colors are running at your town. Who will win? The blue me or red you? The answer is easy—the one who loves more will win.  We love each other equally. The universe saw it. But what I'm loving? There's nothing there now, not a single word. The fact you enjoy being a stranger to me us is a hard fact I've learned to accept.

Aroma

At night, the aroma of Mama's food still lingered the air in the house, as if mom just cooked us a delicious meal as those countless old days. I waited for mom's call from the kitchen to ask us to eat, but no sound. I kept the light on as usual, I wrapped myself in the cotton blanket, I closed my eyes. "Mama", I whispered.   I was long for mung bean pastry, a snack I loved since the first time I ate. So I decided to make it from scratch. One important ingredient is the lard. I noticed a bowl of fatty meat in the freezer for a while. So I took it out, defrost it. When it was boiling in the water, a lot of garlic gloves and dried shrimps were separated into the water. The images of mom peeling garlic and adding spices to the meat flashed in my mind, I held the spatula to stir the meat, so that my tears wouldn't drop. Then a familiar aroma of Mama's food drifted in the kitchen. I thought of the days mom cooking in the kitchen, I breathed deeply, I felt safe in th...