I haven’t been keeping this blog up to date much, was I? Looking back I can trace it to when I joined Wolfery. It satisfied my desire to write and create worlds so well that, for a few years, I never needed another outlet. I was in my element, creating realms and stories and I basked in the emotions of people discovering those places and coming to live in the stories I wrote.

Of course, it all changed when I left Wolfery too – a bit more than a year ago. Despite the odd rumours, there was never any fallout between me and the team. I liked them all, I thought I was doing a good job as a builder. The decision to leave came from some specific personal liabilities arising from the themes that Wolfery allows to be explored. I didn’t want to be part of that, so I tried to pack as quietly as I could, and I left. Sadly, I had to take some of my writing down because some stories have to be living to be experienced truly, and I couldn’t hand them off to anyone. Other bits though, flourished: I enjoyed the stories around trixens – species I created from a silly quirk of generative AI that kept drawing giant foxes with only three paws. Trixens now exist outside my control, but I love how they still follow the direction I set.

Since I left, I was never the same. A prolonged depression was only intensified by the lack of social contact. This year was the longest I spent not being part of any community, not being part of something bigger than myself. For me, being in my dream-come-true environment and then going back to this nothingness was just too much to bear. I even tried to create my own realm of sorts, but the initial excitement of building something bigger-than-I was replaced by the sense of abandonment. Funny, because the lore reflected it. The places I wrote in there were all sad, desolated husks, just like my writing was, just like my mind was.

Unfortunately, this all could have continued in only one direction, where you’d no longer see any writing by Shinyuu because there’d be no Shinyuu anymore. When you are as deeply depressed it’s not like you stop fighting. It’s not like you stop having relatively good days. It’s that your willpower is so low that you just can’t continue. You have to be pushed and pulled along, and you’re lucky if you have friends that can notice that and help you.

I suppose, I am lucky.

My art output changed over the last two years. As I spiralled into the depths, my artwork became a cry for help. I needed it to create the social interactions for me. Of course, that only brought more disappointment. I stopped sculpting first as a temporary break to improve my observation skills by studying drawing, but I never got back to sculpting once I did improve those. Then, I gave up of drawing, too, even though, looking back, the pictures I made for myself were nice. They were just not the kind of pictures that gather likes and social noise and that’s what my mind needed. So I stopped drawing, too. After all, what’s the point if ChatGPT can make any image from your imagination better than you can and creates 3D models faster you ever could, right? I even started to feel inadequate about my writing because I’d only discuss it with all the various AIs (mostly gemini. Others are prudes and freak out from a sight of a female nipple).

This all brought me to this moment and to this blog post. I don’t know if anyone will be reading this. I don’t know what they will be thinking. I’m not sure if anyone will subscribe to my blog (I actually don’t even know if it has a subscribe button!). I don’t care.

I started writing this blog back on Tumblr because I had fun rhyming silly things. Then I made it bigger by posting my short stories. I don’t know if anyone ever read them. I didn’t care. I enjoyed the process. And so I want to get back to where I just enjoy the process of making something, smiling, and letting it go. It doesn’t have to be big, it doesn’t have to gather social feedback, but I want you, occasional readers, to feel the emotions I felt when I was writing it. I want to doodle things without thinking if they are good, without craving perfect lines that look professional. They never will be, and any AI can draw better lines than I do. And I don’t think it matters.

I am a storyteller, and it doesn’t matter if there is audience for my stories or not because the words are inside me; they crave to get out, they demand to be spilled, they must flow, with all the pain and sorrow that I have right now. And that’s okei. It’s the weather, surely. It’s something in the air that makes us write things that feel bleak, trapped, deteriorating. But if Yeats could do it, if Beckett could do it, then I can at least try. Failure is an option. Failure is the eternal outcome. It’s fine to live with failure as long as you fail better each time.

I’ll see you around.

Last modified on 10 September 2026