I'm not sure how I'd not see it before, but last night I finally directed an honest look at the activity of writing, and wound up concluding that, maybe apart from great sex, I couldn't think of an activity that brought me further from where I believe "the truth" is at. Senses literally become ignored in the process. Awareness winds up funneled into a purely imaginary place, working with imaginary blocks to create an imaginary result that could somehow be on par with whatever is being described/represented.
I'm back to considering most time spent online an utter waste.
The fact that the previous statement will automatically be misunderstood by most, and that no amount of additional explanation could change that (indeed, I've no reason to believe doing so what amount to other than the multiplication of misunderstanding) is sufficient reason to, at best, look warily at online as a place where useful information might be found, but furthermore feel compelled to laugh hysterically at the prospect of it leading to satisfying interaction resulting in greater understanding of anything important.
I may update this place from time in case anyone out there enjoys my perspective. But I'll never be interested in interacting with you unless I somehow devolve to some state of desperate loneliness, which is looking pretty unlikely given the real world position I've by grace wound up in.
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