On Writing and Being a Child of the Universe

I've been trying to urge myself to write lately as I have said. I was able to put down a skeleton of a chapter a couple of days ago and it has not been followed by any more attempts since. Right now I just feel tired. Tired and worthless. I feel obsolete. Like the world had spun so fast that I was caught on one space and time and never moved from there since.

I don't know why I'm forcing myself to believe that I should be focusing on a few things. I can't do it. I can't just narrow things down, because I am made to love everything. I am made to explore every nook and cranny, every ugly and pretty, every still and chaos. I am a child of the universe (sorry, Desiderata) and I don't plan on limiting myself to a few things when I can have a little bit of everything. Fuck being great. Fuck specializing. Fuck conventions. I have never lived with that kind of mindset anyway so why start now? There is beauty in living and pride in being just. Not ambitious nor content, not exciting nor boring, not ground-breaking nor irrelevant. Just being. No adjectives, no descriptions. No fucking pressure.

I'll keep doing what I've been doing and I'm sure I'll be fine. I am here to love and create. That is all I will ever do until the day I die.

Break pt. 3

Maybe I should just accept the fact that I am not good in creating anything. In editing other people's works maybe, reviewing, critiquing, directing... but to actually create something out of nothing? I have never done anything of the sort. It is more difficult to start now. I am turning 27 in less than a month and at this stage, with every step I take I am deciding on whether I would keep the physiological privileges of having a roof over my head, food, and a healthy self, among other things, also dragging behind me a wagon of responsibilities. So no, starting to write at this point in my life isn't really as simple as I thought it would be as having a month-long break.

Break pt. 2

Why is it so difficult to write anything other than Love? It was so easy, to write about a blossoming love, a great love, a failed love... but to write about other things... it just feels alienating and unnatural. Maybe I'm not really a storyteller. Maybe I should consider being a non-fiction writer instead. That's just a bummer. I'm not even a good blogger.

Break

Like I promised, July has been a month-long break. I tried watching and reading more but all I acquired is an acute case of social awkwardness. I have lost all my personal communication abilities whatsoever. I can rarely relate and empathise unless we're talking about a fictional character. I am more lost now than ever. But as they say, lost is a good place to start. I've been thinking about what I want to do next because clearly, being the Jill of All Trades of Filmmaking is not going to last forever for me. Eventually, one way or another, we must choose one thing if we want to be any good.

In this road to self-discovery a.k.a. indulgence, the only thing that has been coming up recurrently is the idea of writing to be read. Not really writing for profit nor writing as a profession, but just writing stuff that other people can also read (or see, if it's a screenplay or a stage play.) 

I have not decided on my fate yet but whatever I decide to do or become will require a healthy body and sound mind. So for now, I need to take a shower and step out to eat. Such is the challenge on a lonely, rainy, Sunday night.