Aug 20 • General discussion
Micro-Myths in the Age of Emptiness
Some days I write like sludge spilling out. But even sludge moves. A good line isn’t perfect — it just pulls you forward. And forward is what matters. I live at a crossroads. Truth is, when am I not? My inner state shifts in cycles. Every few weeks a new weather front moves in. The one who observes it all grows stronger, though not always happier. Maybe happiness isn’t his role. People in history rarely asked if they were happy. They built cities, survived winters, endured plagues. They aimed at survival. Happiness was incidental. Our generation faces a different enemy. Material threats recede, leaving a void. The old myths collapse, the sky goes blank, and dissatisfaction has nowhere to land. Once, blame could be thrown at famine or invasion. Now the arrows turn inward: Why didn’t I study harder? Eat better? Become more? Progress makes every fault feel personal, every disappointment a verdict against the self. But I’ve seen what happens when I grant myself micro-myths — small quests, personal arcs, fires lit by my own hand. When I stop rejecting my life as “average” and treat it as a story, direction returns. I’ve proven it before: in games, on the basketball court, in the ring — even in business, starting from nothing and shaping something with my own hands. None of these were accidents. They were quests, proof I could bend reality, however briefly, to my will. Depression whispers those fires are gone, but memory argues otherwise. The coals are still warm. And when I write, or step outside, or connect with another human being, sparks rise. They always do. Maybe the world no longer offers us grand myths carved in marble. Maybe it doesn’t need to. The age of gods and banners has passed. The age of torches is here — millions of small fires carried in human hands. Meaning spreads sideways now, not from mountaintops. And when I light my torch, others see it. Their smiles reflect the fire back to me. That loop is sacred. That loop is proof. The stars were never lost. They’ve only been waiting — for us to lift our torches, to join our fires, until the sky itself begins to burn bright again.
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Micro-Myths in the Age of Emptiness
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