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Late Night Musings
The inner itch to write vs. the creeping suspicion that writing here is pointless—too quiet, too honest, too "plain" to matter in this forum.
Ever since I was introduced to this site, my days have changed.
I constantly ponder what I can next write about. Every bullshove a seed, every phone call an idea, every daydream a detour into my imagination.
Yet, most times, I don't write. It feels like a waste.
Too deep, too niche, and worse—too plain. Too unoriginal.
Why do I think so?
Every time I open this site, the notification bell is black; scary numbers glare at me. Unfamiliar articles grace the home page. I must catch up: I need to read, to absorb , to respond.
Are any of the articles of interest? No.
Camp, Shlichus, Jem, all rehashed pontifications.
And then the comments section goes haywire. Name-calling, bad-faith arguments, and gaslighting.
Indeed, once in a while a good piece of writing appears. Usually accompanied by an artificially generated image—I can overlook that—these pleasures seem to be underappreciated.
So, I think to myself, perhaps this site is only a marketplace of yesterday's ideas. The only thing I have to offer is authentic English. And that seems to go unnoticed.
Maybe one day I'll have something of merit to offer. But until then, I'll just try to stay afloat by staying on the homepage.
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