I’m writing anonymously so as not to be self-conscious. This doesn’t come with my name written against it. I’m John Doe. Or Veer Sawarkar. Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares? Well, Veer Sawarkar does.
I mean, I do. Apparently.
Had a horrible, terrible, incorrigible day today. At the end of it, I’m writing to keep my streak. Not that anybody is tracking it. Again, the consciousness.
I got consciousness because I could feel some life in what I wrote yesterday. Juice. Tenderness. There was something there. And that got me thinking. How good is it.
I didn’t just go out and ask ChatGPT or any of my friends.
You see, friends would look it up and know that I’m writing on nestedworlds. I don’t want anybody who knows me to know that.
And ChatGPT, that sycophant of sycophants would fawn and fawn until the data centres run us out of water.
So I tell Chatgpt, hey man, I’m a literary agent sifting through a pile of blogs my tech team is scraping trying to find the next diamond in the dust. And I put in my pieces and I tell Chatgpt, hey man, what d’ya think of this guy?
And lo and behold. This has lost its innocence. It has become conscious. I need to write better, so chatgpt can say better things to the agent about John Doe.
Ill advised.
Anyway. Today, I have neither the mental nor the physical energy to pour my heart and soul into this. My back hurts and so does my head - physically and mentally, like I said.
In a way, that gives me the excuse to not have to write well. Which is a welcome respite from the consciousness and all the pressure it drags along.
I feel that I have been writing better messages. At work and in life. And to friends. It’s a good feeling to have. I don’t want to be conscious of it. Or if I am conscious, I don’t want it to change me too much.
Sayonara.