Why do I bother publishing anything I think? The question echoes in my mind when I post anything. Given I’m unconvinced there is an actual reality, I don’t believe any of it is truly meaningful anyway, so why would I consider my thoughts are important enough to share them?

Besides, they are all basically unoriginal. Of the roughly 120 billion people who have ever lived, someone at some point in time must have considered each and every one of my ideas, reached every conclusion, and made every goddamn mistake I have and will ever make.

So who am I to believe anything I have devised, calculated, or crafted is original? It is a near impossibility. And if that’s the case, why bother doing anything, much less share unsolicited thoughts, art, or philosophy — because, generally speaking, no one will ever do anything original again.

Surely there are those who do not share my philosophy that peak originality was probably reached a long time ago. Perhaps they are driven by something different — not that I really understand it. But, I suspect within me there is a dissonance that drives me to derive old thoughts and other devices; knowing the seductive stream of input from life will end must at least passively affect me.

Baser than childbearing, creating just seems like an easy narcissistic habit. But, there could be more to it. For all I know, holistic life may be like a big damn computer, and by putting my thoughts into it, I am introducing into reality a virus that mutates it as part of my consciousness propagates — sort of infecting the world with my germs. It seems more likely, though, that the will to transmit these derivatives of mine could be the cognitive version of the biological sex drive, a blind salvo shot into the future with the hope of preserving part of me.

Or, maybe I’m just vain like everyone else, and I deny it by disregarding the simple need to receive feedback. That could make sense, too, if I thought life was so simple.