June 27th, 2020

Hi. I’m doing my best.

As far as feeling like I’m in the middle of a dark forest that’s burning inward from all possible sides, I’m relatively fine. To manage my anxiety, I tend to turn inward and find personal value in pop culture — right now, my favorites are Green Lantern, Doom Patrol, The Bachelor’s Greatest Seasons, To Tell The Truth, Floor Is Lava and anything Disney Afternoon — but I really want to talk to you about something.

I want to talk to you about intent.

Let’s play an uncomfortable game. Let’s say that tomorrow, you simply cease to exist. Poof. You’re gone. And the only thing left that people can actively use to hold onto you and your memory is your social media presence. For the rest of their lives, all anyone will ever know of you is what you’ve managed to already display on your multitude of digital profiles.

How content are you with what is here?

When I find myself frustrated or feeling empty as I scroll, I realize it’s because what I’m seeing is void of intent; it’s just pages of mindless copy & pasting, dutiful production of meaningless content. However, when I find myself engaged, or inspired even, it’s because I’ve stumbled upon something special: a person thoughtfully expressing themselves in a way that feels genuine. Human-like, even.

Intent does not always mean important, at least not in a traditional sense; your picture of a tomato, paired with a paragraph about your struggle to grow a single plant, could make a day.

I scroll through my own posts, and I feel like I’ve wholly put myself in them. People who go through them will see: He’s dramatic. Uses too many words, could possibly use an editor. Way too excited about way too many things. But he’s passionate. Complicated, and a little tortured. He’s a writer. Obsessed with his dog and comic books. Dresses up like an idiot, and frequently. Avoids sitting in boxes. Loves hard. Works hard . . . on occasion.

Rarely in the history of human beings have we all been allowed to create long-form obituaries in an autobiographical format. That’s not meant to sound grim, but we are all going to die at some point. And at your funeral, people are going to talk about who you were.

Maybe you’ll be a collection of memes. Maybe you’ll be a sprawling mural of art or photography. Maybe you’ll be an inspirational wall of poetry. Or maybe you’ll be remembered by people mostly for what you did in real life.

Whatever it is you are here after life — I hope it’s because you lived it intentionally.


Published by dennisvogen

I'm me, of course. Or am I?

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