My Avant Garde Movie Script

You can't count on me to write even when there is something on my mind anymore.

How do I begin to put words together when I don't even have a steady stream of conscious thought. It's like I've been writing a script with no unifying notion or theme to tie any of it together. I feel like the synapses in my brain are firing off with complete disregard. Drifting off, I'm in so many places yet none at the same time. So all I can do at this point is to beg for any sort of competency to articulate, to communicate my state of disbelief and loss. Evidently a couple of sentences in, I'm not answering my own prayers.

The past couple of months have been a little strange. At this time, I'm forced to reflect and I can't quite wrap my head around it-- unable to distinguish the good and the bad. It's been a little bit of a blur, really. I'd describe it to be like a roller coaster, but not in an "up and down" kind of way how people would usually imagine, but rather one of those fucked up sections of the ride where the designers put a couple of corkscrews in there just to fuck with your sense of orientation. You can't quite see where you're going, but you just know that you're moving forward. Eventually it's all going to come full circle as the brakes engage-- I'm just hoping that I'm not on a ride designed in Roller Coaster Tycoon. I was always the kid who made unrealistic coasters that would send riders to their demise. ("[Roller Coaster Name] was too intense..." Pussies...)

I can't help but think I've been a little reckless. A little too young. Yet at the same time, I'm only getting older. How do I live without consequences kicking me straight in the balls? I feel thankful yet so unfulfilled with a definite sense of self-entitlement.

I'm still not all here and there is a something constantly wearing away at the empty space. The walls continue to erode and little chunks of myself are being washed away day by day. That's the problem with filling a void with anything other than yourself.

My July

Everyone needs something or someone to hold onto.

Just to keep him or her afloat. It doesn't even have to be tangible. It can be a conviction, an ambition, or a daydream. Something to keep him or her going-- fuel. Because as much as we'd like to be self-reliant, we can't just live for ourselves for some sick reason. Like the buddy cop who dives in front of his partner, in slow motion and all. Some people do it for a greater plan, a larger power.

Maybe in the end, it is actually for ourselves.

So why not skip it and just be better for yourself? It just might be the solution for me. Sure, it may sound selfish. But so is using other people just for a sense of purpose. People get hurt, and the worst of it is that you're responsible for their suffering. To me, there's nothing worse than causing someone's emotional distress, and I've played the part on both ends of the bargain. I forget that there are 4.6 billion self-aware,  living people who feel just as I do. They breathe, hearts beating, looking up at the skies wishing that others are looking at the same exact picture as I am. The best thing I can do is to take comfort in the fact that they exist-- perhaps not thinking the same thoughts but breathing the same air.

I sit on my balcony that I knew would be a place of solace, Adele playing in the background, scotch in one hand (switched over to wine for the night already) and cigarette in the other. I look at the Palm trees in sight. The birds just made a noise and I'm trying to hope for humanity's sake that they're not bats... why would they be? The night air is cold and I can barely feel my toes, but it's strangely sobering. The bass is bothering my neighbor enough for him to knock on my door ("I am not trying to be that guy... I'm not a dick...really... but these walls are so thin") so I'm forced to castrate my music. This is what my night is shaping up to be like... how it's been the past month. It's not so bad, but the problem that I have is with the mentality that I've been going about it... wishing for something to save me.

I need to heed that nothing can save me from myself. A breakfast omelet will not be made without my making it. My problems will not be solved by anyone else. No one can take these deep breaths for me. So I suppose this is yet another entry about manning, growing up. That's all I can write about these days, I guess. I wake up tired and come home exhausted, but it's all a luxurious suffering. It's all the beautiful struggle of a spoiled kid.

It's still all beautiful.

My Pen with Dried Ink

I can't write.

It's not your typical writer's block. In fact, words are flowing if not pouring out, matching my steady stream of thoughts normally fragmented. Instead, my tongue is tied because I can't bring myself to materialize these thoughts in fear. I'm afraid of the consequences. I am scared of feeling too vulnerable and exposed because they are private. I don't want anyone feeling singled out as I document their presence or absence. I am terrified of writing because it means that everything becomes tangible and real.

You may think that all of these things can be avoided if I kept a private journal or somehow made these entries unavailable. The truth is that this would be unsatisfactory. Call me an exhibitionist if you must, but I believe that making these things public is a integral piece of expression. The writer scribbles his words not for the sole reason of showing others, but he prepares for the possibility of their being read. Even with a limited, or even imaginary audience, these entries are as intimate as locked eyes or a close embrace. Because the truth is that all I want is to feel that I am not alone-- that I'm not this oddity, a walking abomination, a fucking train wreck.

But I am alone. I haven't decided whether that's a good or a bad thing. It may be both or neither.

So I'm stuck here.
Writing about how I am unable write.

My State of Sadness

It was brought to my attention tonight that when I talk about sadness, I tend to be vague. This took me a little by surprise because it wasn't always this way. After thinking about it however, I realized that it's true. More importantly, it dawned to me that it sort of makes sense.

Yes, I've got sadness running through me.

For no particular reasons that I can think of other than hormonal imbalances, I've got lots of it. It's a fundamental part of my being. It is responsible for my heightened ability to empathize. It's my creative driving force, materialized by each and every step that I take and every sentence that I struggle to construct. I embrace it and sometimes thrive on it. Absolutely and unnecessarily painful, I live my mundane life as if it were the cinematic sequence where a supporting character walks away cradling his unrequited love. But this makes me better because I continue to live in a constant state of dissatisfaction that leaves me hungry. Hungry not like the obese woman in a stroller going back to the buffet for her fifth plate (sometimes that too) but hungry with and for a hope that there's always room for improvement.

Yet I choose to keep the sources of my welcomed illness to myself. Or better yet, I am perfectly able to articulate them and the consequences that they have on me with eery emotional detachment as if I were narrating in a third person. The truth is: people leave. And I leave. So you tell me what the fuck the point is. They're much more prized and in-tact locked inside my head. Maybe I'm afraid that the sadness could be cured. In fact, I know that it can disappear-- it has before.

I'm not ashamed of the multiple sides of me that make up my being. If I were, I would not proudly exhibit it through my writing. Although these entries are not written for validation, I am well aware of eyes that skim through them (yes, yours.) I encourage, if not crave for people to understand how I think. It's rewarding when someone makes an accurate remark about me that I've never thought about before.

But know that these thoughts are mine, and mine only.
And so is my sadness, regardless of the things and people who have caused them.

My Mortality

You know how when you sleep on your side sometimes and your ear rests right up against the pillow, you're able to hear your own heartbeat? I fucking hate it.

It's a steady beat that speeds up slightly when you inhale and slows down gradually as you breathe out. There's a consistency that you take for granted. But do you realize that while it continues to pump oxygen one second, it can easily stop the next? The sound of my heart beating is a constant reminder that I am mortal. I've always said that the only thing that I can't get more of is time, and there are so many things that I want to do. Chances are, I don't even know all of the things that I want to do yet. In other words, at some moment in time before some truth is revealed to me, I'm going to drop dead.

And yet, I abuse my body constantly. I drink and smoke too much. I'm awake at ungodly hours thinking the most mundane thoughts and writing the most cliche words. I'm not helping my race against time. But God damn it, it's during these times that I feel the most alive. It's as if we are cursed to think in dichotomies-- if it's not this, then it's that. If I'm killing myself slowly but I'm not dead yet... I must be alive. So nobody can kill me other than myself. For that, this life is sublime.

My Sleepless Nights

I sit here exhausted but awake, barely able to assemble a complete sentence. It's laughable for me to even attempt to construct a coherent train of thought. I really wish that I could take these fragmented flashes and build something useful. But thoughts fly by, slipping between my fingers everytime I try to connect the dots. As scattered as 80's movie montages may be, the champion always come out trained and ready, the house is cleaner than ever, and the ugly duckling transforms into the girl that every jock desires. (That last one usually only involves in the taking off her glasses, by the way... Don't be fooled by Hollywood movie magic, fellas!) For me, I'm only rewarded with mental rug burn.

I've had trouble falling asleep for a long time now. These nights come in waves. Like a school of piranhas, once they arrive, I fall prey to their sharp teeth sunk deeply into my skin. My body becomes a punching bag-- taking vicious blows from my own drawn premises, countless "what-ifs" and an endless pursuit of the truth. My heart beats in rhythms measured by a couple of "I'm sorrys," a few more "fuck yous," too many "goodbyes" and not a single "I won't ever leave you." Eyes wide open, I lay hoping for a moment of tranquility. And sometimes for a second, I get it.

But sometimes a thought can take your breath away.

I wouldn't say I tend to overanalyze. I am a firm believer in looking past the bigger picture. Because really, it's easy to see what is shown to everyone. But it's behind the covers-- the fine print-- that lays the reward. The problem is that as I lay in bed, I'm trying to decipher a different language. So far, my translation is, "I'm scared, I really want you to understand. I haven't been giving you my all and I think you know. I'm not sure if I ever can."

Why do I have to be so comfortable?

Thoughts are not defined by time. Like a film, you can replay them over and over again-- celluloid strips may wear with time but chances are they'll last longer than you will. So we dream. We wish that our version, complete with alternate endings, subtitles, and do-overs can be released as the Director's Cut. But the truth is that while feelings and mental images are not confined by the clock, events are. Our every action, consequential, are in ink. So we settle.

And by this time, I've become too warm underneath the covers and every slight physical irritation becomes a grand obstacle for me to fall asleep.

The sun rises. The tear ducts around my eyes involuntarily water as I yawn. Two particular thoughts come into mind. "Well, here comes a new day" and "Fuck, I never closed my eyes."

Rinse. Repeat.

My Big House Party

I'm sure you've noticed-- college house parties are not quite how they make them out to be in movies. The host is not getting duct taped to the tree in the back of their massive house for the most part, people are not getting peed on (by John Cho, for that matter), and cops are generally going to show up with a yellow piece of paper to shut the party down sometime before the clock strikes 2AM. Either way, it all ends up being routine. Even with small variations (i.e. topless Oompa Loompas running around, numerous selections of sweets being licked off females by the gay fellas, Elmo on coke passed out in the backyard, gargoyle on the keg) they all somehow follow a schedule. If I'm being efficient enough, I can usually parallel the amount of alcohol that I force into my bloodstream with the party's different stages in progression.

When I'm not too busy poisoning and mummifying myself, I take the time to sit back and observe this (sometimes) controlled madness. The truth is that the social interactions that make up the basic foundation of these parties not only bore me-- they exhaust me. Not in a physical way obviously considering I've been working out a little bit (The ten push-ups every other Sunday have gotten the ladies to take notice!) For me, mental autopilot drains more fuel. Talking about subjects that I take interest in with people I care about takes far less energy than my attempt to engage in a conversation regarding how that last shot tasted. I'll try my best to make a witty, inappropriate remark... but it's really out of courtesy. Plus I'm pretty sure, or at least I hope that it didn't in anyway resemble King Kong's asshole on a hot, humid day.

The perks of being a wallflower are that you get to see what is really going on. I've always been a fairly observant person. People-watching and eavesdropping are my hobbies. Even during nights when I'm feeling strangely social, I'm still persistently taking in my surroundings. So within the first few minutes, you can tell the identities of each participant like a game of "Guess Who" made too simple.  The overcompensating guys who are going to start shit and ruin the vibe. They're the ones who come into the party with a full car, didn't bring anything, and is hogging the handle of Captain Morgan for the night-- one guy carries the bottle underneath his sweaty armpits, another the 2-liter of coke, and two more to follow them around with a douchey smirk that makes you want to punch them in the fucking face. The whoo-girls are in another corner. They're the ones who are telling every person they find remotely attractive to take a shot with them in desperate attempt to strike up a conversation. They dance away at "their jam" on the kitchen counter, drinking not really alcohol, but their insecurities. The people who just ripped a few bong hits are sitting on the couch. A little bit too stoned to function, the world is passing them by at lightning speeds. Words slurring (but who's arnt?) and eyelids heavy, their mouths move but the sentences arn't quite constructed correctly in accordance with grammatical rules. Then there are the people who stand near the wall with a look that screams pompousness as if they are better than you.

Oh. I guess I can fit into that last category-- but I don't think I'm better than you. Not by a long shot.

So this begs the question, "Am I going to miss this after I leave... after it leaves me?"
But I guess you can miss anything.
And I think you should be allowed to miss anyone.

My Direction

Conversation these days can be narrowed down to the following categories: relationships, unfinished to-dos, and the future. The last one on that short list seems to dominate. In fact, I'm a member of the guilty party who uses this topic as my go-to. You know... the one that you always have in your back pocket whenever a conversation runs dry. I guess it's normal considering the place in time. But I think it's really that there are so many ways you can spin it. The feelings towards it-- the general uneasiness with a new beginning or excitement of change. The logistics and plans whether short or long term. The future... it's all we can change and only thing we can look forward to.

I guess there's some merit when people say that I'm lucky because I have an idea of what I want to do. But realistically, I don't think luck had much to do with it. I knew my strengths and weaknesses. Although this never did give me an edge over other candidates per say, at least this hyper self-awareness that keeps me up at night created a sense of direction. I've always known that I want to work with people in a creative environment. I'm not particularly artistic, but I get along with those types of people and have a strong ability to empathize. The path in marketing and advertising path then showed itself. And through some poking around (ex. apparel and entertainment industries taught me some great lessons) I realized that an advertising agency may a good fit-- and I went for it. Is it the ideal job? I don't know. But at least I know I wouldn't suck at it and along the same lines, I won't hate my life.

I will be working in Los Angeles next year.

It's a bittersweet next step, but at the end the logical one.

I'm not much of a wanderer. If anything, wandering without, sometimes even with direction causes me great anxiety. I'd call rather myself a nomad-- a person who can't stay at one place for an extended period of time, but decisively travels from one home to another. As I mention all the time (honestly, I'm such a repetitive prick it's not even funny. I'm the most unoriginal person I know) this has left me with a very disillusioned idea of home because really, it's anywhere... but nowhere at the same time. If I don't have plans, at least I know where I might want to go. This is so very exhausting and I can barely keep up with my own footsteps, but the clock only ticks one direction.

I've decided the next part of my adventure. You might not know where you're going or where you want to be quite yet. But who knows-- maybe you're heading the same direction.

...So won't you come with for the time being?