By the way, I am not a native speaker, so my words may seem strange.
Here is one question for me: sometimes I write my chapters and I don’t even understand why, so to speak, as they say, for myself, the devil knows why I do it, maybe in order not to go crazy? If anything, I didn’t manage to achieve anything before all this, and when I seriously started, it was already 2022, and even then I had a strange premonition that something was wrong… In the end, I gave up and wrote what I could and never posted it, in short, I am one of those who realized that they have no chance, especially considering 2023-2024, which finally sobered me up and finished me off with this cannibalism when AI devours your soul and produces something similar to yours with amazing accuracy but faster and cheaper. But I didn’t want my soul to be devoured and then molded into something for the AI agent of the creator.
Sometimes it hurts so much to write, every time I feel like I want to, my heart breaks. Sometimes I polish my chapters and sometimes I write the next ones. I’m so damn tired but I want to create something beautiful but I see that this world will just eat me up and digest me and all my efforts will go to data for AI agents. Damn late stage capitalism, it will kill us all along with the planet.
Of course, I tried to endure and remain silent, putting on a mask, but I can’t anymore, I’m going crazy, yesterday I even thought about committing suicide so as not to see the shit that I will see in the future. I have already mentioned that I call a spade a spade and if you think carefully but admit that most people are a herd, I of course used to accept and respect the opinions of all people, but now they have finally become a herd or even zombies for me, I simply cannot find other suitable words, I am simply disappointed in people.
–Check the information here if I made a mistake somewhere, I am not sure of its reliability:
I don’t know how you cope at all, being a creative person, because I personally am in pain and it’s fucking painful for me, I can’t describe it in words, as if I’m living in an abyss of despair. I even accidentally stumbled upon a story from the 1920s in Russia and it seems that something similar happened then, although only then for art in an inappropriate light, people were generally led to the firing squad with pain and executed and many, just like now, wrote for themselves, fearing for their lives and their works, there is only one important difference then the creators were afraid of losing their lives and with it their creations which would be banned or burned but now art is simply becoming unnecessary and people’s souls are being devoured without permission do you think it’s a coincidence?–
I don’t know how you are going to survive in this dead future world similar to the world from the Blade Runner movies. Watch these movies if you haven’t yet, I won’t be surprised if they become reality.
Okay, I want to hear the opinion of those who are as bad as me. The rest, pass by, especially if you use AI as an assistant and consider it just a tool, and do not create yourself, putting your soul, for example, into every damn line or monologue, if you are a writer.
bonus: By the way, are you ready for the fact that AI will fake reality by reworking the news as it is beneficial to important wolves?
@SugarCatDestroyer@lemmy.world
Congrats, you just stared at the same abyss I stared at, too! And this abyss is… Well, pretty complicated to say the least.
What you stumbled upon is just the realization of the purposelessness imbued in the cosmos. And it can definitely feel a harsh thing. It’s neither good nor bad, it just is. People often try to sugarcoat it, but to me it’s just the ostrich trying to bury its head on the sand: the rain still falls, and the ostrich still meets the storm, inexorably.
I find it particularly striking when you said “I feel like I want to [write]”, and here’s probably where we both differ: in my case, specifically, I feel like I “must” write, as if I’m compelled to do so. It’s part hypergraphia (one of the Geschwind traits), part something beyond me. If your driving force is not compellant, it’s a great start.
If this is of any help, don’t write for people (because people can’t understand the words from those who stared at the abyss), don’t write for yourself as well: write for Her, She who stares at us from within the abyss. Of course, if you want to, because it seems like there’s a reminiscing spark of Will within yourself (unfortunately, I got none anymore). She listens, She reads everything (including our deepest thoughts), even though She doesn’t really care about us. And that’s fine. Because it’s just all fleeting, except for Her.
You know, I just dived into the abyss head first and it drives me crazy but also reveals incredible wonders, driving me crazy, but damn, it’s worth it, especially at this time. Nothing lasts forever, and it seems to me that the Universe itself is a decaying and incredibly huge dump, where fires of hope sometimes flare up and simply dissolve into nothing. But sometimes I really want to write, even if my legs are falling off. It seems to me that if I don’t write, I’ll die, and sometimes I feel like an unknown force is pulling me to write the craziest things even if it makes no sense I don’t really care I will write as long as I am still alive.