HELLO ıts me(myfirstime)

    Hello, I wanted to dive right in because if I think about how to do it, I feel like I'll never be able to. I don't think being too much of a perfectionist is good. In fact, I don't believe that someone who is a perfectionist can accomplish anything; it's the destruction that comes from trying to be perfect. This is a bit of a pessimistic start, but for now, I'm putting perfection aside and writing whatever comes to my mind; we could call it a stream of consciousness.

   Writing is meaningful to me, but I'm not really sure if it is, because despite saying that writing is important to me, I can't argue that I'm even a little bit talented in this area when I look back at my life and see that I have no works (unless we count my diaries and half-finished journals). There are ideas, but no execution, just like everyone else. If we weren’t lazy, think of all the things we could do, right? If we worked a little harder, slept less, and cared less about what others think... Would it really be that different? Would I be living that millionaire life I envisioned five years ago? Am I just fooling myself? Probably.

   For me, writing is a bit like this: facing what I fear to question and think about.

   I was diagnosed with anxiety when I was 15 or 16 years old. Until then, I thought I was the most carefree and easygoing person in the world. Then I started to research, I was finally thinking about my feelings, and I remembered that I never really got enough sleep because my mind never stopped. In that moment, I had an awakening, but it passed. I am still the most carefree person: I don't know if I'll get enough sleep and I'm not worried about that.

   Is it a disease of our time, or has it existed throughout all eras? Is it my illness? We always expect more from ourselves: to be the most famous, the most successful, to win five Oscars, and a Nobel Prize too. The richest person in the world. These dreams sound nice until you're about 10 years old, and then you have to face reality. It’s an unjust, enormous world. You say, "I will change this world; I will bring about world peace." Then, a human-like being appears... Are they the real humans, or are we? Saying "we" seems too egotistical, doesn't it? Who are the real humans? Is it them, you? We call bad people animals, we say they have lost their humanity; how do we know they aren't their true species? Are we elevating ourselves again? “I am human, the smartest animal,” “What animal? I am human.”, “Someone who does these things cannot be human!” But can they? Well, we are just mammals.

   This animal goes to sleep.