Why I Write

Today, I spent a long time thinking about what I am going to write about next. However, I did not really end up with a satisfying topic. Something interesting, something I find valuable. But today the idea just didn’t want to show itself. They seem to be rather shy, it‘s probably the heat—40 degrees Celsius. So, I’m sitting here looking at the endless rotation of my fan and have decided to simply start writing. About anything.

A sort of free association, a technique Freud used to uncover the deep unconscious psychological architecture of his patients. It is also, however, a great way to find new ideas. Perhaps they become a bit more self-confident and show themselves in the course of this—whatever it is. I also hope this is something worth reading.

You are usually, used to articles, that take a great deal of time. I often sit on those articles for 40 hours, researching, reading, writing and so on. This certainly isn’t that. And to be honest, I am happy to simply write.

Because now that I think about it, writing so much, is actually pretty exhausting—especially considering that I am doing this for a few months now and not really getting any money out of it. To be honest with you there were times I doubted myself. Investing so much time and effort and then seeing the slop that goes viral—seeing how this platform evolves into superficial notes, poorly researched articles—in some way it disgusts me, like Sartre’s Antoine Roquentin in Nausea. But it’s not just on here it is everywhere.

So, I thought about quitting. I mean let‘s be honest: who the hell writes articles the whole week, for what is maybe 80$ at the end of the month. No sane person would, that is clear. But lucky you, I am not really a sane person (ask people who know me).

Because despite not making any money with this, I simply love doing it. Sometimes, after getting home from work—the real work—I find myself sitting at my PC and thinking what to do next. Maybe play a bit chess, or watch that movie haunting my watchlist like a forgotten ghost? No. Let‘s just finish that one article I started. Let‘s refine that one argument. I can‘t really help myself anyway. I won‘t stop.

And then there are also you! Yes you—you can now feel free to pat yourself on the shoulder. Would I do this if no one would read any of my articles? Probably, yes. But it is still a lot more fun, knowing there are people interested in what I have to say. So thank you, truly. I know 13000 subscribers are not a lot in the online world, but I am still happy about every single one. Every single person who reads my articles, is one more person understanding me, hearing me out. And I think that is a wonderful privilege. But lets stop here, it gets a bit too kitschy here and I despise kitsch.

So where was I? Right, I love doing this. The deep questions of life have always fascinated me and although I am rather average in understanding and trying to answer these questions, it is what I want to do with my life. I see this, like Aristotle, as my path to Eudaimonia. Writing here is part of that very process.

But then there is also this obsession I have with finishing projects, it is a big reason of why I write. Not all of this is intrinsic motivation; don‘t be fooled. Some is a good portion of compulsion. Often I hate what I write, I really do. I can‘t read articles anymore that are older than two months and even the newest I find unsatisfying. I always try to create something special, new and interesting. This is that sort of Nietzschean drive. My will to power, in an intellectual sense.

However, that is simply not always possible. There is this grand wish in me to write and do something, genuinely different. I think a lot of people suffer from this problem. Everyone tries to be special, non-mainstream, but even in that trend there is something I find genuinely dreadful and revolting. We are living in a world where non-mainstream has become mainstream. Whatever drives attention, works and becomes only more entangled in the system, which deepens our sense of meaninglessness and the loss of real values. And then there is this fear at the heart of modern man, to be stuck in that meaninglessness, until nothingness.

Nothing breaks free of that compulsion. In the quest to be unique, to do something with our lives, we‘re only digging ourselves deeper into insignificance; as if struggling and only sinking further in mud. It is like Adorno said: there is no right life in the wrong one. There is no breaking of the spell and it has never been harder to find authenticity.

We are doomed to follow this idea and find meaning in what we are doing, in the rush we call our life. It has always felt like a rush to me, even though I am still only 21 years old. I do not want to get too personal and won’t, but I have always dreaded the thought of death and have thus an almost—maybe not even almost—hypochondriac response to health issues, and to wasted time. This is also why I have always found the idea of being a theist extremely appealing, and it is because of that appeal—beside other arguments—that I have never become one.

Why are you still reading this? But stay till the end, will you?

In this rush to find this enlightening moment in the process, when the light comes on so to speak, we find ourselves nowhere. And since the moment is never really a moment, but a progression, everything is inevitably lost. I am thus caught in this gorge between the absolute embrace of life, the quest for meaning and Thanatos. I procrastinate enjoyment until I have found something worth resting on, so that my thoughts may be free to saunter. They rarely are.

Roger Willemsen called it the Knacks: a small crack at the bottom, formed through an imperceptible transition. It builds like small fissures on the surface of an old painting, you thought you know until you don’t know it anymore. For everyone this can mean something different. For me it’s this self undermining compulsion to create value and live meaningfully. I am always trying to—using every inch of meaning I can find—but it is not to be found as long as I can’t stop searching. I am not sure I am able to grasp the Knacks fully yet, but it is there in between the lines.

I don‘t know if any of this makes sense, but I don‘t care, although scrap that, I think I do—I am not yet “free of the curiosity in regard to criticisms” of my work, as Nietzsche wrote.

The most striking thing of all, the miracle so to speak, is the very absence of a mission in this text. I am beginning to think this might be why it needs to be written.

Maybe this is about, why I write.

Ah—and so the Idea has come forth. There it is, hello my dear friend.

Today I have rarely thought about choosing my words, thanks to a little trick of destiny, every word has found its place, without my conscious will. Maybe this is it.

I expect to find ears and eyes for my truths today.

And thus spoke the Idea…