2025-02-13 Journal Entry

I’m writing this because Claude is kicking my ass about it. I’m sitting here alone in a four-bunk dorm in Seoul, currently alone because the other two roommates are presumably out doing something more interesting with their time overseas. I’m hungry. There are far more restaurants within a five-minute walk to really rationalize this hunger, and by all means I really should be walking outside to the nearest G24 or 7-11 and getting some food, if not to the nearby udon place which I know for a fact has a tablet on which to order, alleviating my petty anxieties about talking to people in this very moment.

I really should go outside, but I probably won’t. Instead, I’ll remain sitting on this shitty cot staring at my computer, possibly still writing about my anxieties at that time, or maybe instead watching a YouTube video and generally sort of wasting away. Ones twenties are supposed to be times of action, so I’m told. I want mine to be times of action, at least.

I’ve quit my job if only because it wasn’t me enough. It’s narcissistic, I know, to really want a job that’s uniquely yours. There’s a certain narcissism in general about the modern age, I think.

I think I hate the term creator economy. I want everyone to be making shit, but I hate that it’s destined to be oriented towards stuff that makes money. What I want most is to make something that is me, to be seen and reflected upon and in my self for others to see them selves. It’s a way of feeling less alone, I suppose.

But I won’t go outside. I’ll stay here behind these words, on this cot that cost me 16 United States Dollars a night because I want to extend my funds for as long as possible.

Other people think that quitting your job to travel is a brave thing to do or something, that it takes courage to go out into the unknown and to take some crazy leap of faith. It’s terrifying, but I don’t think it’s nearly as terrifying as living a life as someone else, as someone that’s replacable. That’s why I had to leave – I was just following orders then, to some degree. That’s not to say my work was meaningless, but it certianly wasn’t me.

I hate the term creator economy but I want everyone to make something. DeviantArt and Tumblr were probably the peak, I’d say. They were the places where young people just made art and poetry and silly little songs, and I don’t really ever remember trying to get a bunch of likes or follows or whatever. I just took shitty photos and posted them online because I thought I was $greatPhotographer (I don’t know many photographers tbh) and because I thought they were cool as shit.

I think I want a world where everybody is just making shit. For their eyes only, not for anyone else.

“If you want to really hurt you parents, and you don’t have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I’m not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way of making life more bearable. Practicing an art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow, for heaven’s sake. Sing in the shower. Dance to the radio. Tell stories. Write a poem to a friend, even a lousy poem. Do it as well as you possible can. You will get an enormous reward. You will have created something.” - Kurt Vonnegut

It’s funny, I read in a book about the idea of gravity problems, problems that we think are problems we should solve, but instead of problems that are really intractable and that we should move on from. One of the main examples was about poets making more money – it just won’t happen.

(Alright now I’m gonna try rewriting this into something Real and see what happens.)

I’m hungry. I’m sitting in a four-bed hostel dorm, alone – my bunkmates off doing something more appropriate for fellow twenty-somethings travelign abroad. By all means the best course of action would be to walk to the convenience store across the street, or better yet that udon place a few minutes away with the touch-tablet where I can order a filling meal without removing my headphones or requiring any real need for human interaction save for my half-enunciated thank you when I receive my food, which would alleviate my petty anxieties about talking to people. I’m hungry.

% I really should go outside, but I probably won’t. Instead, I’ll remain sitting % on this shitty cot staring at my computer, possibly still writing about my % % % anxieties at that time, or maybe instead watching a YouTube video and % % % % % % generally % sort of wasting away. Ones twenties are supposed to be times of % action, so I’m % told. I want mine to be times of action, at least.