I don't move until march 1st but I like to stay on top of things. I suppose it's a part of my nature.
A pile of clothes is sitting beside me right now waiting for me to wash them. It adds character to the already removed place. The walls are still coated with the mess up paint from Home Depot and scribbled with my ideas born from insomnia and herbal substances that are unfortunately still illegal. But it's been a while.
I am going to miss these walls. I suppose it's a bit of my womb. I closed myself off from much of the rest of the world and many of the people I know here in this room once things got bad.
Once my father died.
Once my mother started dealing with depression.
Once I lost my job.
Once my other job slowly fell apart.
Once I began struggling for money.
I wrote and I sang and I continued. With paper and pen, all I had was cheap and my mind filled with a way out. My walls are remnants of my various trimesters growing and changing. A cocoon of sorts that grew and transformed itself. It's nothing like the first moment I saw it, but what really is?
I open the closet door looking for more things to pack. I've already taken the pictures off of the walls, and I've already packed my now semi-ancient compact discs- (ha) and even more ancient vinyls.
And like a good gay boy, one of those vinyls is Barbara Streisand. Everyone needs a little kitsch in their lives. I needed a lot to balance out my heavy.
In the closet the stacks of screenplays and letters from agents- some hand written- some thoroughly sincere while still rejecting me- sit. I look at the UPS packages with the screenplays in them and remember I almost completely forgot what I'd accomplished. I've written four screenplays, full length and even got a contract in the mail from Bad Hat Harry productions. I showed it to my uncle who is a lawyer- it wasn't a good contract at all and I would've gained nothing except having to shut my mouth and not do or pursue anything until they essentially threw my screenplay out. But it was something.
I beat myself up over and over because I've yet to accomplish anything, because everyone else is trying, but I completely forget I tried and continue to try as well. I can't forget how amazing I am and no one else should either. But that's what shit does to you- takes away all that you are and all that you've done until all you think you are is a failure. I am a writer, I am a singer, I am an artist. And soon everyone else will know.
I will destroy these walls again.
