I never considered myself a hoarder nor sentimental. I have moved more times than I can count, so I've gotten used to getting rid of stuff from an early age, whether or not I wanted to. I believed it was always my destiny to arrive while being in a state of departure in every facet of my life. The older I became, the more detrimental this belief became.

But what I never considered was that collecting digital information, files, history and bookmarks is actually a type of hoarding. I store my documents and files in at least three different emails, Dropbox, and an external drive. Every year I create a new folder on my computer, simply titled as the year, and in it I store everything I accumulate during the year, mostly images, screenshots, videos and text documents. I've been doing this since 2019 but that was just the organisational part; I've been storing digital data long since before then.

I was looking for something specific (it might be on another computer) a file where I wrote down what kind of things I wanted to photograph. The new phone I purchased doesn't take great photos compared to the cheaper old one I had which I purchased specifically for its photographic functions. Long story short, I'm planning to get back into photography. I have an old digital camera that doesn't turn on for some reason but if I can get it working I could resume my hobby without an unnecessary expense.

I haven't found the file (I don't even know if it's labelled tbh) but what I found might be more valuable. Notes from a Brazilian friend of mine I knew between 2015-2018. She was sometimes remarkably wise beyond her years, she would surprise me with advice and reassurances that seemed to come from another life, since she was otherwise quite emotional, frivolous, lost in fantasy worlds and being the biggest hopeless romantic I've ever met in my life. They say we are merely an accumulation of all the people we have ever known. I used to be nothing like her when I knew her, but now we would surely have much more in common I think. Though it still takes a lot for me to cry in front of people or even in private...

These were the contents of the simple text file, titled “to remember 2.txt”:

1. When you work hard at something you become good at it.

2. When you become good at doing something, you will enjoy it more.

3. When you enjoy doing something, there is a very good chance you will become passionate or more passionate about it.

4. When you are good at something, are passionate and work even harder to excel and be the best at it, good things happen.

naryamirie

"(...)all of these have a common problem: to reach their own illumination, they don't want to pay the price demanded by it - the price of pain.

It doesn't matter if you're a Hare Krishna, a monk or anything, the spiritual journey, in any age, has always demanded and will always demand a deep and necessary state of pain - in this case, the pain of retirement, the pai of loneliness, of the isolation within oneself."

naryamirie

"Of course I'm not talking about a 'spiritual weekend getaway', with a spirituality workshop included. I'm talking about the necessity to pass through the lonely crucible that's the process of discovery of oneself and that by itself generates pain, because it means to walk a totally unknown path, negating every and any morals, abandoning any principle coming from others, and obeying only the voice of one's own soul."

be perceptive, strive for the ugly truth, don t settle for the seemly, learn to trust in the something greater, learn to trust yourself, face your fears, journey through the loss of ego, don t tolerate less than you deserve, come to know how to transmute, the ultimate rebirth, break barriers that keep you from intimacy, understand that intimacy is not only between bodies, explore your body and trace every silver-lining, know that you are here for a reason, accept what is beyond you, recognize fault and injustice, admit your wrongs and learn your truth”

This is serendipitously relevant because it's something I've been thinking about and talking about for the past few days.

I cannot remember the exact context of our conversation, but seeing it next to steps to “making stuff” it clicks. It clicks because creating, for me, is not just about performance. It's not just about seeming impressive, intelligent, talented or like I've got something to express that hasn't been said before.

Creation is essentially spiritual and deeply existential, unconscious. To share it with others is opening your heart, your mind, to scrutiny.

There is a tactic that abused people have. You have abandonment issues so you leave before someone else leaves you first. You expect mockery so you mock yourself first, hide it with jokes. You are proud and confident but you know the fragility of your own ego, you've seen too many times how people fall victim to their own delusions of their abilities, so you act humble when praised or acting bashful when you've just shared something you know is good – but just in case it isn't, your mind says, I've already criticised you thoroughly before anyone else could do worse.

It's a sort of meat-grinder, taking a pure idea or vision, expressing it – and during the expression and sharing phase – attaching your own ego to it.

It's funny because you know better than to judge the artist by his art, whatever the case may be, but when it comes to you – to your creative impulse – suddenly you're reading what you wrote or regarding what you've sketched or photographed or filmed or whatever – and you're thinking “is this good enough? What does this say about what kind of person I am? Will anyone find this valuable?” And the questions never end.

I guess this is the closest to parenthood I can get to.

Something you created seems to be made of your own mental and emotional essence, but once it's out, once you share it, how much of it is truly yours now – copyright claims aside – now that it has entered the consciousness of other people, does it not have a life of its own now?

But even with children, people often judge parents more than the child, whether for good or bad things, even if the child has a certain level of autonomy. Even in adulthood parents can take credit or blame, even if their influence is not as ironclad as they may believe.

Taking on so much responsibility for a piece of work is a desire to control the outcome. But take a look at the greatest works, especially in modern times. Music hits, cult classics, classic literature and even poetry or plays or viral videos. How many of them were carefully constructed, poised to become great? Only the ones that had millions of dollars and promotional content pumped into them. The things that become great, once they leave the comfort of your consciousness, are not dependent on whether they're polished. There is no formula for greatness. And this void produces a peculiar kind of ache in the soul whose greatest source of despair is to be nothing. To be acutely aware of a nebulous sense of purpose, but spending a lifetime looking for it and then fading away in a miserable life of half-finished projects and halfway relationships. To break through the sea of noise is an exceptional feat. How do people do it? If there is no formula, who picks the next big thing? It seems greatness is a matter of fate. Accepting it sounds like the sensible thing to do but the fear of having something important to express, working hard at it, and never getting results is literally my worst nightmare. It sounds dramatic but it seems like my entire purpose in life is founded on this principle. My whole life I had a sense that I was meant to do something important. I knew normal life wasn't for me. Even as a child I had this weird sense of destiny. I would look at people, families, careers, hobbies, everything other people had that made life comfortable, stable, interesting, linear. I thought “I'd love that, but I'm supposed to sacrifice that in order to do what I was born to do.” It's funny remembering this now. Part of me was unconscious, but part of me knew exactly why I did what I did. Why I made the choices I did. Why I refused to follow the linear path, why I insist on existing outside the system one way or another. And maybe it's all leading to this moment right now.

I'm trying something new with my creative projects. I'm tired of these games, of nothing ever working out, yet I never give up trying. My mind is a puzzle I'm determined to figure out. I know a part of my problem is my psychological affliction which I have yet to address but this year is the year. I don't have the luxury of substance abuse to smooth out the edges of my work, though different options are on the table should things not improve.

I guess for now all I can do when creating something is do it in whatever way that distracts me from my obsession with perfection and worth. But even thinking about it frustrates me because I think, if it's not good enough and it's not worth much, why would I share it with anyone?

I swear, social media has co-opted and perverted the very concept of sharing. Everything is sharing and it seems what is more valuable is what is private and difficult to access. But as a creative person, as someone who wants to be in the public eye – to fucking contribute something – I can't be shy about it. To believe that the right people will notice what's real and what's performative, to have faith in your magnetism, because stranger things do happen. Like the time I became friends with Kristen Pfaff's nephew (she was Kurt Cobain's friend, died a few months after him, and was the bassist of Courtney Love's band Hole – I am a fan of Kristen), or was liked and followed on Instagram by the art director of a famous Japanese musician.

This reminds me of a stupid fucking problem I've been struggling for the past 10 years, but have since gotten over. I had countless social media accounts all across the web but I always deleted my accounts if they got too many followers or too much attention. I made some viral posts on Tumblr, which I will not divulge. I've gotten my tweets liked by several famous people over the years before I deleted my account. One stupid video I made on YouTube last year got 20,000 views, the most I ever got, and it's just video game footage. These things are both reassuring but there is a sort of panic that takes over me when I get what I asked for. It's the kind of person I am. I am much more comfortable dreaming and yearning and hoping. I can't handle being blessed and maybe that's my issue.

I dream of greatness yet greatness also terrifies me.

You see, there is no going back.

Greatness is transformative. And in today's age, people will be digging up your past, if you get great enough.

When I was a teenager I imagined myself getting famous and disguising myself like Daft Punk. I was intrigued by Gorillaz, Burial and Banksy. Especially Banksy, especially now that I actually went to see his genuine exhibition in Amsterdam in 2025. There were signs he had been there, he had written on the walls, made little marks among the various memorabilia. I wasn't allowed to take pictures, interestingly enough, and bags were claimed by security. Recently he made a new piece in UK, he's unpredictable and it's always special when someone recognises signs of his activity scattered throughout the world. Anonymity despite fame is a fascinating combo and a part of me believes that this may be the only real way to divorce yourself from public backlash or public worship, in case either happens. I'm on the fence about whether or not to reveal myself online in the future, whether to use my real name in a published work or some sort of pen name. I go back and forth with selfies on Instagram and X, upload them then delete them at some point. It's like I want to be seen but sometimes I wonder if that's a good idea. I envy my friends who can be all normal about it or even romanticise themselves with dreamy filters and cinematic edits. There are advantages to being unseen as well as seen. But in an age where exposure for attention is such a major trend... Maybe being a public secret would stand out more. Or maybe it will sink further into the background.

I know I'm rambling a lot, but sometimes I need to clarify some things through writing. Sometimes I don't really know what I'm thinking until I write it down.

Persist because the pain persists. Maybe, eventually, it will start to feel like pleasure. And maybe that's all that matters. 

I have so many other files scattered throughout different drives and devices. It could become a new theme now, where I still talk about the past but now it's about the things I've forgotten I had or knew about? There has to be some value in all that mess. I kept it for a reason.