I can't write
I reread this stuff from 3 years ago, and it's like "wow, why to sting together those sad bastard adjectives", but, alas I don't have it anymore. Perhaps, I will come back to this time in my life in 3 years and think the same. Christ! In 3 years I will be 30. Yikes. I live in the crystal shop; I've made a home there. I miss school and belonging to something bigger then me in this way that words serve no justice. I feel myself falling into the abyss of "status quo" and mundane. My art was gonna change the world. Seriously? I thought, truly believed that it was gonna happen. I thought the stories I had to tell were gonna affect people the way Rushmore and Heavenly Creatures changed me. Now, now I watch bullshit like 27 dresses. I don't even think about it anymore, I have become so far removed from everything I was part of that art, film, storytelling and serving the greater good thru creativity is something I occasionally dust off and think, of yeah, that was me in another life. Where to we go? What is it that happens somewhere after 22? "Wherever they go, and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing." Or maybe not. Maybe we grown into Christopher Robin and never think of pooh again, we don't hear the bell or come back to the giving tree. We grow up, get a mortgage and forget that we once stood in the prolific waves of dreams big enough of swallow a valley.