What I Truly Do Things For — My Inherent Lies & The Story That Remains With Me

I believed everything I did was for others, even necessitating it. Perhaps that was the lie I believed —the false life I lived, and the tales I told of it.

For Whom

My intent when writing (and conveying ideas in general) has been difficult to nail down. Do I do so for myself or others? Or a better question, should I do so for myself, or others? And what does either entail?

For most of my life, the answer was the latter. The “audience’s” interests came first. Capturing adequate attention, entertaining, or providing something “worthwhile” was a demand that had to be fulfilled.

Lest I dare to waste one’s time with my presence.

Even before my exposure to the addictions of social media, ideas & works were prioritized for an “audience.” Whatever I output was still influenced by the need for good grades, dictated by the judgment of my teachers.

These pressures changed how I wrote. Sometimes I forwent my true thoughts in favor of upholding an image. Every word altered to optimize statistics and values — to fit the supposed criteria. The implied necessity to satisfy, evoke, and whatever else.

Failure to do so was not just missing a mark — but an indication of ill will, idiocy, or both. It was a notion that “failure” was done in malice. Thus, I felt pressure to be “valuable” just out of fear of villainization.

Even the essence of the work itself was under duress. Ideas conveyed and projects made not just out of a desire to do so, but perceived necessity. A fear of being unseen and forgotten. The demand to have worth, and be worthwhile.

Throughout these years of fiasco, I did things not for myself, but for others. And it had detrimental effects on varying levels. Ruining family vacation videos with terrible EDM music and editing. Or writing in superficial, exaggerated ways. At worst, writing on topics I was completely unknowledgeable of.

Based not in my authentic self, but fear.

In more recent times, this largely isn’t the case for me anymore. I still record travels, memories, and everyday happenings on my camcorder. But not to post and butcher on social media like I did as a teenager. Those 13+ years' worth of videos are private — just for me and those close to me.

I write about topics I care about and know about. I’m confident in these thoughts and events that have deeply affected me — because I’ve experienced them myself. And while my writings are public, the pressure of judgment is much less of an influence on the result, let alone a work’s inception.

In the present, I do things more in my interest. I can say I’m more true to myself. Through relinquishing external pressures, I feel I’ve become the most authentic I’ve been yet.

I haven’t tried to be dishonest. I’ve conveyed what I truly feel.
But even so, everything I’ve written is a lie.

Hidden Sight

I’ve realized in the digital realm, my authenticity is simply impossible. The truth of my documentation and thoughts are never conveyed as they exist within me, no matter how hard I try.

My media is a static snapshot in time. However, my thoughts and status are dynamic. In the length of time it takes to document those, they’ve likely already changed.

I currently hold in pent-up emotions. They’re too personal to talk about, I lack the courage to tip the boat, and I don’t have anyone to confide in anyway. But as unhealthy as that is, those feelings will wane, possibly by the time the next paragraph is written.

My thoughts on the entire purpose of this writing may change. I may realize something that contradicts what I’ve said. My values or perspective may transform, and I may not even remember anything I’ve written.

But whatever ideas I’ve jotted down are already frozen in time.

And so I leave a phantom trail of myself through these snapshots, containing semblances of my truth through a distorted lens (or screen, rather). But even so, they become outdated in a near instant.

The crux also lies in the fact I’m telling a story first and foremost. Not necessarily a picture-perfect highlight reel, but one conveying limited picks of ideas.

If I wanted to show my true experiences, I’d describe every single detail. “Well, I’m tired from last night, I went to sleep at 2 AM because I was watching a comedy special lying on my side and barely staying awake, and here are 60 events from my childhood for context. At the beginning of time — ”

To do so bloats the narrative, which is that’s precisely what this is. Perhaps not a narrative in the sense of propaganda, but my experiences are selectively observed for a purpose or idea.

However, in reality, my life is not an inherent tale. Rather, one is chiseled from it, with the biases and limited perspectives that come with the territory.

And so for the sake of an idea, I carve away aspects of my truth.

Even if I could excruciatingly detail my thoughts and actions, recalling everything objectively to a perfect degree, what I convey will still obfuscate my truth in reality.

I once called writing the purest vessel for an idea. However, the most authentic form of media is still that — media. It’s the epitome of genuity, in the same way red flames are the coldest type of fire.

And so in the wake of my futile quest to not be forgotten, to record my story, and to become “worthy,” I’ve come to acknowledge that there are some things that words, or anything for that matter, cannot convey.

The feelings from rediscovering old belongings, for instance. A plain brown pillow, a Santa-shaped one. Photos and relics that I myself hadn’t remembered, and thought were lost to the sands of time.

Only then did the memories come back. And a sense of relief.

Returning to my childhood home for the new year. Walking down the streets, and seeing many old restaurants/stores replaced by new, unrecognizable establishments. Piquing my interest, yet evoking melancholy from the fading memories of a decade ago.

Those words can’t replicate how it feels.

I’ve harrowed so much over preserving or sharing moments. But perhaps they were already extinct the moment I stopped experiencing them. Everything after is an interpretation in hindsight.

That is the fatal flaw of that notion I once believed. The perceived necessity to make my mark and have my story remembered. To do things prioritizing to provide for an audience. It just isn’t possible.

What I get from my random footage of Canadian geese, isn’t what another derives from it. Nor can one see/feel the impact of events regarding the topic of inadequacy exactly as I did. The context always differs.

Only I can see what I do, residing amongst those memories, because only I have lived the life I have. And so even if I insert pieces of that into a work, those facets will likely not be recognized — at least not in the way I intend.

To another, that brown pillow likely just looks like that — a plain brown pillow. And whatever thoughts or feelings spawned will equal that level of emotional connection.

With this, I’ve realized some things remain, and will die, with me.
And that it’s okay, if not inevitable anyway.

Subjectivity in this sense was something I could not grasp in the past. How what I saw wasn’t necessarily visible to another, and vice versa. How abstract reality is within these unreliable perspectives.

My values have bounced around, ever volatile over the years. I’ve contradicted myself many times over, flip-flopping between polar sides. To think I can convey, or so graciously bestow wisdom from my experiences, when I can hardly understand them myself, is silly.

Intent always revolved around what’s given. To make one’s work craved, wanted, and needed. Capturing attention by any means necessary, which usually means to provoke.

However, I’ve found more significance in what one’s able to take for themselves. When one can truly feel they have the freedom to choose, and that their choices are their own.

I believe that’s the strength of an idea.

One that *evokes*.

Because of evocation, I can view an account from across the world which largely differs from my own life. And despite the figurative & literal distance — that I’ve never been in those situations, I can still experience the feeling of home. This wasn’t possible years ago, but with more lived experience, I’ve discovered that commonality.

Hell, even in a fictional universe, I can see resemblances to my emotions and memories, and feel a sense of familiarity. Even if I’ve never driven a spaceship or used magic.

I now write, record, and do whatever else for myself — at least the best I can. Yet contrary to what I’ve said, I’m still introspecting via publicly visible writings.

This is perhaps the exception. Because my motives feel different now. Before, I always tried to show, like a salesman doing an act. Now, my intent seems more akin to… leaving the curtains open.

Allowing eyes to peer in, but not being influenced nor pressured by them.
Maybe even unaware of their presence, in blissful ignorance.

It doesn’t feel like I’m introspecting publicly anymore, but just by myself. Of course, I also don’t have a 7-digit readership on these, so maybe that factor makes it easier to forget.

Either way, I feel this is now purely an outlet. I used to say I didn’t care about metrics, but I did. Again, words can’t describe the nuanced difference between then and now. All I can say is, I don’t need to keep repeating it for me to believe it anymore.

I often write my thoughts not because I believe them, but because I want to. That’s why I write the same ideas many times, sometimes in nearly identical wordings.

But this one can be just what it is — the semblance of truth amongst the inherent lies I write.

Requirements

The greatest influence on my motives was this provocation of necessity — so goes the saying, “a problem created to sell a solution.” For example, by sticking a number or adjective next to everything, I was successfully convinced I had to depend and live by them.

Bigger numbers and more positive words were better. More happiness, more success, more validation for oneself. It became a dependency, an absolute must, to fuel its rise. It was the sole indicator of worth, value, and everything else.

The psychology aside, digits are inherently addicting to me as a freakin’ nerd, so I was enraptured. I mean, I’ve sat for hours watching these values fluctuate and waiting to see if the new mAP50 value is higher — on multiple occasions.

I was convinced that these metrics/statuses were of utmost importance, even though years ago, I got along fine without knowing of their existence.

I never knew of nor cared about views, comments, or reviews when I was a kid. Nor did I care about having value or worth in life, whatever the hell those terms even mean.

I didn’t care to be known or provide to an invisible entity, because I couldn’t. I simply lived my life in my little place, doing what I thought was best to my best. It was before I was made aware of these problems and desires I had.

I did things because they felt right to me.
Nothing more, nothing less.

The more time I spent on social media, the more I bought into it. While the pressure wasn’t exclusively from the digital realm, online exposure exponentiated it. I needed to get this, and I must do that. Because what I had wasn’t good enough, according to these newly minted metrics where apparently, there was a concept of “good enough” regarding life at all.

And so I relinquished control, piece by piece. I voiced my opinions. Not because I wanted to, but because to remain silent was nothing short of villainy — and I was afraid. Yet at the same time, speaking unknowledgably was a travesty as well.

I followed practices to put stuff out there, because that’s what I had to do to achieve “success.” Making a blog, developing a game, commoditizing life. Everything had a guide or mandate to be followed. To not do so meant I was wrong and subpar.

It was affecting me outside of social media. From thoughts to actions, every aspect of me was measured against criteria. “You need to do this, you are wrong about that — ”

This was me living at psychological gunpoint, until I wished for the trigger to just go off already.

I find no shortage of irony in a notion demanding one take control and do what they were meant to do, by using fear to coerce one into following what it says. That’s a common headline I’ve encountered.

Many pressures I’ve encountered are similar. A problem exists that, I was just never aware of. I was dysfunctional the entire time without knowing. And there was a solution — listen to this. Do the right thing, or remain in my eternal patheticacy.

To not do was to be forgotten by history. That’s another scare tactic that kept me afraid and despondent. Because of my lack of grandiose, renowned accomplishments.

Of course, I wanted to contribute to society, and not be the useless being that was (apparently) myself. But despite my desire to fulfill this, nothing I did was worth consideration.

Last I recall, history is also a story. A story that holds a narrative to a purpose. And so I beg the question — who’s telling it? Whose version of events does this comprise? What does one intend to do with it? And are my best interests in mind?

Whose purpose do I fulfill, by prostrating myself for entry into one’s grand telling of some tale?

I see no merit in fulfilling an arbitrary metric of adequacy, just to be used as a means to an end. As if it’ll make one’s experiences more valid. Or rather, as if permission is required to become so.

One of my most significant themes from last year, was realizing this inadequacy cannot be overcome by design. Whether it’s internal dissatisfaction, or external coercion dictating what one’s supposed to do, there’s no winning.

I pass the checkpoint or satisfy the quota at last. But it means nothing because there’s a higher one I’ve missed. And so despite having progressed, I’m still somehow in the same place.

Perpetually beneath the bar that’s been created.

And so say one day, after an age of agony, I reach this status that grants me passage into the pristine pillars of history — assuming that somehow happens.

Say I make some contribution that fulfills the requirements and prove myself to whatever majestic arbitrator that so graciously bestows the gift of retelling my story for me.

When I do so, I relinquish control, becoming a drop in the bucket of this great narrative. And I’m sure it’ll be told time and time again. The assumptions of my attitudes, mindsets, and ideas. The attributes that made me oh-so-special and uniquely capable compared to those that aren’t.

It’ll be a derivative tale used to pummel and demotivate those whose position I was once in. Obscuring the facts of my flaws, my painful mental paralysis with no hope but for death.

These same notions that not long ago, drove me to concussive self harm. Soon, another missed bar will appear to dwarf it all anyway. But none of that will ever be told.

It’s a story made of nothing but lies.

True Story

I suppose I’ve discovered another meaning in this quote — “Better to be forgotten for what you are than remembered for what you’re not.” I can’t find the author, but I swear I recall someone saying it.

In any case, I’ve just had something click while pondering on this. I think this is why compliments discomfort me. I’ve searched about this phenomenon where they can evoke unease or even anger. It feels ridiculous to dislike them, but it seems I’m not alone.

There’s likely a trust/distrust element to it, as it’s usually from online text. But I’ve thought about what compliments I can take, and which cause those inclement emotions.

In every one of the latter, it seems there’s always a description of what I am, or what I did. “You are a… you did […]”

And so even though it’s a compliment, perhaps it makes me feel like my story’s being usurped and retold right back to me… with a spin. That I’m being judged by what is willfully perceived, not what I wholly experience.

On the contrary — simple, spoken compliments like “Good work,” I seem to believe the most. I obviously won’t demand praise in a certain way like — “When you speak to me you speak in *this* way, don’t talk to me, don’t @ me -” But it is interesting to explore sources of these seemingly irrational emotions.

They didn’t come out of nowhere. That’s for sure.

And so I come back around to that big question.
What do I truly do things for?

If I say I do so to preserve my authenticity and share aspects of myself with others, that’s a lie. Because by virtue of presentation itself, everything I put out is put through a filter — and anything but my truth.

If I do so to satisfy and appease, out of pressure/fear instead of desire, then I live a lie. I concede my life and story as a mere asset, all in the hopes of greener pastures kept perpetually out of reach.

Whether it’s writing an article, recording raw footage, or developing an experience. Choosing to travel someplace, do an activity, or even feel the way I do.

I do so for no one but myself. And so by writing these words, I aim to do just that.

Well, that’s also a lie.

I find it difficult to even look at my prior work without feeling a sense of embarrassment, as I ruminate on everything wrong with it. Maybe my thoughts were asinine, maybe I tried too hard. There’s so much that could’ve been better in hindsight.

Viewing what I’ve past created is often an egregious form of torture, as I fixate on all my flaws of that time. So it can be hard to enjoy the fruits of my actions.

But perhaps it’s not in terms of the outcome, but the process that’s for the self. I write fiction to end up with a story, but also to discover one. I create an application not just for the sake of having it, but to explore problems in this world as well.

When I write something like this, the publication itself is of least importance to me. Rather, I write to release bottled emotions and gain further understanding of my experiences.

I write because I’m lost without a way forward. I have many unsolved problems and feel I’m decaying alone. Even if in a world of over 8 billion, it’s virtually impossible to not share some common experiences.

That similarity can be so hard to uncover, especially when so many stories remain encrypted under the proclivities of the digital realm, and the great filter imposed throughout all these narratives.

And so when I conjure these words, perhaps I’m reaffirming to myself — my experiences do exist in reality.

In a strange sense, doing for the self does a lot for others too, even if that’s not my main intent. I’m no longer impaired by the crush of standards. There’s less weighing me down.

I’m focusing on ideas I’ve struggled to find insight into myself. By adding my paper to the pile, perhaps I create just one more opportunity to connect with another.

Not to provide an absolute answer, but to evoke thoughts and emotions within one’s own experiences themselves.

Just as I derive from the personal accounts of others—reassurance I’m not alone in this.

Contradictory to everything I’ve said, I want to do things for others. Nothing presumptuous like attempting to solve another’s life problems, but lower-stakes sort of stuff. Because at this point in my life, if I only had myself to live for… I wouldn’t. Even then, I’ve already reached a dangerous edge before.

I’d love to help someone with a task or give away oversized chocolate bars on Halloween — all for the heck of it. All those altruistic ideas I had as a kid, that have unfortunately gone by the wayside.

It’s not pure goodwill from me though. There’s also a desire for meaning and feeling that I’ve done good. I’m the one who wants to do it so… I’m still doing it for myself in a way.

But that’s the best of both worlds. Free from duress, coercion, and obligation—by doing for myself, I might just do more than I ever could before.

So I shut myself in my mental abode, but leave my curtains open to the world. A domain that only I can see — through what I feel is right for me. Finding stories, purpose, and joy, and expressing it by my own means, in the best way I can.

Perhaps it’s a lie. But I know what’s beneath is mine.