dyas-me

[dyas-me]

June 16, 2025

Today I thought, maybe writing would help.

I have attempted to intentionally and seriously write out my thoughts many times for almost a decade now but I never really pushed through due to many reasons, ranging from logistics, purpose, aesthetic reasons, preference and other excuses.

(1) "Where would I even put it," I asked myself at approximately 9:16pm on June 16, 2025, almost the same time I sent Tere: "maybe it will help if i start a diary".

Many of my thoughts usually go into my notes app in various phones over the years; a messy compilation of notes, ideas, unorganized train of thoughts, storylines, concepts, monologues, dialogues, opinions and sentiments that I wished to explore, but I never really do.

Some of it gets translated into drawings since I don't see myself as a "diary person"* or anywhere near a writer, and I do love illustrating my thoughts. Capturing my ideas into a single image, a surge of thoughts condensed into a few megabytes of pixels is a puzzle I enjoy solving. Finishing a piece, no matter how trivial it might seem like a scribble or a doodle on my notebook, or a presentable one that I'd share proudly online, makes me feel like I understood my thoughts completely, coherently and eloquently. Turning it into a drawing makes me feel like I successfully trapped and caged a wild flying thought, and I let it back into the sea of human consciousness after I am done studying and appreciating it - or somewhere I guess if I don't see it fit for human consumption, but that's a different topic for a different day. Oh and who knows, maybe I can get to sell it or get something out of it, right?

And majority of it winds up into the inboxes of my unfortunate friends who I deem worthy and capable of understanding the deep deep well of my higher intellect and wisdom. In an attempt to veer away from being a "diary person" and hold up an internal image of me that is easygoing yet articulate, I have made them the victims of my sudden monologues about the world, my opinions, my troubles and god knows what.

"Mhm, yes, here, please enjoy this clearly well-thought-out essay that I have written spontaneously (JUST NOW!) that I have defintely not been writing in my head over the past few days/months/years. Yes, I am a very interesting man full of wonderful things, oh if only there is someone who would care to pick my brain apart!"

Sorry guys HAHAHA

(2) "Why write now?" God, I don't know.

I think those two questions popped in my head simultaneously, both signifying this somewhat irrational dedication to rationality, an instinctive (though not really - I have been taught to be like this as early as 7 years old) move to create the most practical path to a destination marked and paved by clear intention.

There is no intention. Or maybe there is. I know there is. I have a lot to write about, stories to tell, pictures to draw, emotions and other intangible things in me begging to be made tangible.

But tonight there is no clear intention. I should just write it out. I have long stopped myself from writing because I've always wanted to write a publish-worthy piece, a polished work of art, full of proper sources, well articulated thoughts, clearly explored concepts and fleshed out ideas - but in trying to achieve that perfection, I never really got to write anything.

So tonight I'll write like I'm writing to my friends. Like I'm on my phone, writing nonsense on their inboxes, flooding it as if they have nothing else better to do. I'll write my train of thoughts, messy and unstructured, even though I rewrote the first fucking paragraph of this entry 4 major times (yes I counted).

There are stories in me begging to be told, worlds, designs, schemes emerging, histories and futures waiting to be written. There are sentiments, concerns, ideas, opinions and grievances chock full of pretentious terms and phrases in my head that I would like to throw at someone who might understand. I am many things, I feel and think too much and God, I have no idea what to do with it - no, actually, I do know, I just don't know how and exactly what /this/ is yet, but if I wanna move towards whatever it is, I have to to actually start stepping my foot forward. I have to exercise this muscle. I have to figure out where I'm going, and moving forward is better than standing still.

The two questions have had to arrive at the same time. Where would I write it? Who cares, what even is it for? This measly TXT file will do for now. Why write? Who knows? I don't even know where this will end up. Answers to both need to be thrown right out the window. Basta, I just have to write.

At least now, I have this snapshot of my brain that I can work on.

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*A person that keeps a diary (duh, obviously).

I once had a prejudiced opinion that people who owns one are too sentimental and emotional that they would rather write about their thoughts than act on it, and thus wasting time and energy on intangible things. If I'm sad or angry about something, I work on what I need or want. If I enjoyed an experience, I'll try to get a physical rembrance, and I sure as hell would have stayed in the moment to properly honor it.

I have shed this opinion many years now, but I have retained the belief that I'd rather turn these incorporeal /things/ into /something/, because, like, we have only a limited time on earth and we're just using the energy from our stored fats into things that make us sad, anxious and distracted??? Our fucking microscopic ancestors BEGGED to have this amount of energy in their fucking mitochondria so they can replicate themselves and pass off their DNA to the next generation in hopes of achieving god knows what (actually why? Why are we all scrambling to keep legacies of ourselves? Is this what life is about? Okay, I'm going off-topic…)!! I refuse to turn my loved cheeseburgers into 10pm relapses and self-deprecating thoughts.

I find it funny that in this dedication to make something worthy of existing, I have somehow prevented myself from making something in the first place.

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It is June 17 now and I'm still doing minor edits on this after I posted. Why is there an urge need to polish every bit of work?