We need more people writing from their guts
Sometimes I wonder if this is even worth it. If the effort, the sleepless nights, and the endless hours in front of screens amount to anything. It’s not like anyone’s going to scold me if I don’t do it. Nothing bad will happen if I forget about all of this and just go to sleep—a well-deserved rest after another exhausting day as a cog in the system that so many fantasize about destroying.
No one’s going to give me an award either. No one’s going to congratulate me, and hardly anyone will even know (they’ll probably never know). No one’s going to pay me; I won’t make a single cent from doing this every day. That pat on the back is a lie because no one even wants to touch me. Not for this. And if I post it on my Instagram stories and invite people to read it, who the fuck is going to care? Maybe more people than I think. But they’ll read it and go, “Hey, you write really well,” and then they’ll forget. Because that’s what we’re really good at—pretending we don’t remember. Not just with the bad stuff, but with the good too. Especially when it comes to the things we don’t give a shit about.
And I can’t forget the time spent outside, a real emotional and mental effort. I also wonder if that’s worth it. If going out, seeing people, and socializing really do as much good for my brain as they say. If connecting with others really feeds the soul. And if I don’t do it, if I don’t go out, if I’m not brave—who’s going to say anything? Who’s going to punish me, who’s going to remind me at the end of the day that I fucked up? That I didn’t do my homework. Who’s going to know that I’m lying to my therapist? He told me to go out at least three times a week. “At least for a walk, fucker.” Breathe in the salty air of the evening, let the sun hit your face, let your eyelids feel the warmth of something that is still a mystery. Go, live, observe; life is for that, not for seeking answers.
My girlfriend… she could call me out on it. “You need to go out,” “You need to exercise,” “Go to yoga, it’ll be good for you.” And she’s fucking right! She says it because she loves me (or does she not love me as I am? Does she want to change me? Am I not enough? Was I ever enough? She just cares, she has good intentions. Does she? Is she good? Do I like her?) and because she knows isolation is fucking me up.
Is it even worth being in a relationship, in 2025, the year of the great revelation? “What do you bring to the table in a relationship?” Dude, why the fuck do you care? I’m not going to spoil the surprise, am I? You don’t like spoilers?
I’ve told her so many times that I do like working out (I FUCKING LOVE IT!!) but I’m in a phase where getting started is really hard because I’m doing this and that and going out and learning and working and cooking (every other day) and taking out the trash and enduring and forgetting my past and not thinking about the future and trying and taking a couple of drops and smiling and overcoming, and maybe, just maybe, the gym is not the most important thing right now.
Even if I’m gaining weight, looking the worst I’ve looked in the last six years (according to who?). Even if my trauma from being fat is creeping back up. Even if I asked people not to take pictures of me shirtless at the beach. No evidence, no reality. I get to make that up—until I can’t anymore. I’ll hide in the dark, where no one can perceive me, where no matter how hard I try, my eyes won’t adjust to the darkness; where I can’t see my hands and shadows don’t exist. That’s where I’ll be, until the lightning strikes and shows me the truth. Rips off the blindfold and forces me to look. Forces me to witness what I’m letting happen to myself.
It’s likely that none of this makes sense to you. It might even be redundant. But no more than the millionth who-the-fuck-knows post about overcoming impostor syndrome, or that self-centered piece of shit writing, crafted with the grace of a chimpanzee and split into dozens of two-line paragraphs to create impact and make it more readable, about how your blog is useless if it doesn’t convert.
Bitch? What the fuck are you doing on Bearblog telling its community that their blogs should generate leads when that’s the last thing we care about? Get the fuck out and don’t come back.
And how many more posts about Trump and his dumbass tariffs do I have to read? Or how many more articles/blogs about having a blog are left to be written? How many more do I have to write? How many do you have to write? Because you and I both know that even if the answer isn’t clear, doing something every day is worth it—even if we’re the only witnesses. We don’t need anyone else to know. No one else to read it, as long as we get it out of our heads. That’s what it’s about, and that’s what it’s always been about. Since the first person had the guts to do it and changed history forever.
We need more people writing from their guts. Thanks for reading.
NOTE: I originally wrote this post in Spanish, but I wanted to translate it into English because “fuck” sometimes just sounds better than “verga” or “chingadera”.
NOTE 2: The intention of this post was to experiment with a kind of free-form writing—that’s why there’s so much swearing. It makes sense (to me), even if it might not seem like it. It is important to mention that this post was a brain dump with zero editing, so it might read strange or aggressive, but it's just an exercise.