If I had written one single page every day, I would have finished a novel as long as my life.
But it hasn’t been the case. My 400 page novel is still unfinished, and my life lacks a purpose.
That’s why I am making a public commitment to write, not out of despair to finish my novel, but only because writing has always been a true source of happiness. After all, shouldn’t happiness be the only goal for any human being?
But who am I kidding? Happiness is just a word, a word like God, or Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, something we’d never understand.
We wake up, we go to work, come back home, eat and sleep. If anything disturbs this primitive rhythm we might feel as a failure.
Where I work, everything has a specific place, especially people. They exist in this limited space, beyond reach. As I pass them by, I feel to be part of a colony of virtual humans, or even ghosts in a modern sense of the term. We smile at each other, and say hi and goodbye, and if any of us sneezes, everyone would bless the voice of sneezing, because we don’t have a face or a name or a head. We are just a bunch of voices greeting one another. If one day one of us disappear, we would share the emptiness that this departure has created. We get along, yet we don’t know each other. Almost as if we don’t exist.
It is a virtual world. Nothing has a true meaning, everything has a specific purpose. Nothing has a depth, yet everything’s layered, or as they like to call ”nuanced”.