I’ve been feeling a little stretched too far and too wide lately. I remember a tweet that I had put out a few months ago. It said:
At the time, I was trying to talk about something else that was also pulling me in so many directions. Had I known that this would be a sort of, I don’t know, recurring theme in my life, I would have been more conscious of it. Probably might have thought of a cool tattoo design for it to put somewhere on my body; like a mantra of sorts.
I have some major projects that need finishing and I haven’t come close to working on them because, well, I’m all written out, really. I find it easier to write the work-stuff — the things I do to pay the bills — the things that I say I don’t enjoy doing just so that I can afford to do write the things that mean more to me. Right now, I’m enjoying them more than I am enjoying the scripting work.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy to be working on some film projects. One is pushing through and it gives me hope. Others are moving at a snail’s pace with no end in sight. It kind of exhausts me to have to keep pushing and pushing. I know that is the drill, really. It has to be done. But I’ve been trying for eight years. I think, at some point, I’ve snapped. I’m trying to get myself back together.
I decided not to stress about it and just relax and chill out. I am not going to squeeze the sponge when it’s dry. I’ll make magic happen when I’m nearing my deadlines. I need incentives. Monetary would be great because then I wouldn’t have to be worried all the time if I’ll make my bill payments or not. If I didn’t have that worry, I think I wouldn’t be stressing so much. But the true incentive I need, I think, is a horizon point. Something that will tell me that, at the end of the day, these projects will push through and that they will be made and that they will be made well.
That’s what I want, really. I don’t want promises because I’ve spent my early to mid twenties getting full on promises and then realising they don’t fill the stomach. I got metaphorical ulcers from the lack of sustenance. Is this what being jaded means? To question whether there is an end in sight? To question whether there is a point to all of this? I put my soul out, on the line, with every word and I never know if, by the end of it, it will turn into something or just another file in my computer.
What makes it worse is that my personal life is sort of scattered and confusing. It’s chaotic. There are constants in my life that ground me and keep me centered but everything else is out of sync and out of orbit. I’m reeling from psychic damage, and it’s my fault, really, because I think I am mature enough to be able to say “no” and I am not saying “no” because I feel unfulfilled. I’m finding myself back in old games that I should never have started to play again. I’m making mistakes, mistakes I’ve made before, and I am choosing not to act with the knowledge of how it’s going to turn up.
That’s the problem of the hopeful ones; always thinking that this time it will be different.
Stretched. Stretching. Snap.
I’m giving myself a few days and then, whether I’m ready or not, I have to reintegrate. I have to go completely and fully centered again and focus. I’m realistic enough to not add the stress of insisting I get my act together right this minute. I’m allowing myself my time of weakness, this moment. But I’m not going to dwell here. This is not a good place to be. I’ve been here before. I know these halls very well.
All I can look forward to is that when it is all over, I’ll be shooting straight up into high gear again and I’ll be writing poems like mad, fuelled by the darkness that I’m swimming in. And oftentimes, they make some of the more interesting poems with the most interesting of images.
I’m giving myself some time. And then, I’m done.