Saturday, 15 March 2014

No-phone journal: Entry 5

I've gone through 75 hours.
I'm aware, it's unremarkable. There's even something trivial, childish, perhaps idiotic, about it. The more I dwell on the topic, the less there is to write about, but I cling to it, for unknown reasons. As though wishing to prove a point. As though wanting to be admired for doing something that might be impossible, at least difficult, to a number of my peers. As though believing that lasting a few days may be seen as a victory and deserve a trophy. It's not that, though. It's a test for myself. 1st, I indeed want to prove a point, to myself, that I can go without my phone. 2nd, more importantly, I know myself well, and know that absurd tendency of mine, that if I wish to do something and do it quietly, secretly, I can finish, but once I tell people about the idea, the satisfaction of saying it is so great that it feels as though already done, and I don't do it any more. It has happened dozens of times that now, knowing better, I decide to keep quiet and get going on my own. But what about all the dreams and intentions about which I've told people? Throw them away? Let them go with the flow? Forget about them? No, I can't do that. Thus the best thing to do is to do the opposite, which is what I'm doing, to try to do something after announcing it.
Once a small thing is accomplished, I can move onto the greater things. 
There will be some confidence, some self-assurance, some encouragement. 
Then it makes me think how much use I've made of my past experiences. Something, perhaps. My personal experience isn't very limited, though it may appear so. I've had different periods in life, some remarkably good, some remarkably bad. I've lived in 3 cities, 2 countries, known what it's like to live in a big, open city and a small town, what it's like to live in an authoritarian society and a democratic society, and travelled to a few places in Europe. Above all, I've seen many types of people, and myself been a few different types of people (if people can be divided into types), though the core's still here, there are, I may call, significant differences. Having been bullied and then turning bully to some others, for instance. 
But then, I don't know. I find myself delusional, shallow, carefree and selfish. A person like me cannot become a writer. For I criticise more than sympathise. For I more often find myself averse to, tired of, disgusted with some types of people than attempting to understand them. For even when I try to understand a person, I don't, and can't enter their mind and see the matter from solely their point of view. And if I ever come close to success, I can't put words on paper. 
The paper remains forever blank.  
One should avert one's gaze from the screens, and start observing people instead, truly observing. 
Come to think of it, I wonder why I like texting so much. Because I like writing in general? But texting has no life in it. One looks at the black words against a white background and can't tell what the other person thinks, what the tone is, what the voice may be like. Is this gentle, or harsh? Is this sincere, or meant to be ironic? Is this serious, or a joke? One has to guess. Dozens of times there have been misunderstandings, in texting you don't see each other's facial expressions, gestures and don't hear the voices. Guesses and assumptions ruin things. Yet I text anyway. I've been texting for years, and once this is over, I'll probably get back to texting as much as before. Why? Because human nature is full of contradictions? Or simply because I have double standard? 
No, after this I perhaps won't text as much as before. Think of the discomfort of receiving a message and guessing what the other person thinks, the discomfort of waiting for a message for a long time and guessing why it hasn't come, the discomfort of waiting for something that never arrives at all. Waiting wears one out, I've told you. 
76 hours. 

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