I’m one of those people who will never be happy unless their life means something. “Ludicrous,” you say to yourself, “Everyone wants their life to mean something.”
That’s not quite the case. On a daily basis I interact with strangers, friends and co-workers who are so vividly content in their everyday encounters: Work is boring, but that’s normal. Not too much on TV, but Shark Week has been awesome. Spouse is running a little late so I’ll keep it warm in the oven.
I want so much for that to be what I’m happy to have occur. Ludicrous, for me to mentally scold myself when I waste a day in which others wouldn’t consider a waste. I watch movies and instead of being entertained I’m consumed by the actors portrayal. I flip through the screenplay in my head as the characters continue on my LCD screen:
INT. DON’S LIVING ROOM - NIGHT (SPRING 1946)
Don Corleone blinks. One feels that just for a
second he loses all physical strength; he clasps his
hands in front of him on the top of the desk and
I think about what the writers went through, their creative process, the torture of giving birth to a brain wave only for it to be torn apart. I imagine the best boy grip getting bored with the seventh reshoot of the scene. I laugh about the interns standing in the background, fingers white gripping their clipboard as they play in their heads what they’ll do differently when they’re the director one day.
Then the movie ends. I am no more the wiser on how it began. I am only full of envy for every name that scrolls through the closing credits, I even take notice of Craft Services employees thanked for fueling the crew.
Goddammit, why can I not just enjoy the fucking film? Can I not be wrapped up in the suspense? Why do I sit and wish to be the composer, the producer, the writer, the actor, the director…wish for the talent, or at least the drive to fuel what little talent can be cultivated.
My innocence as a consumer of film has been lost. I fidget on my couch when actors my age take the screen, comparing the fact that I’m drowning in a St. Patrick’s Day t-shirt from Savannah, sitting in a pair of boy shorts at 6 PM on a weekday and this age clone of me is in a film. Then, I proceed to suffer.
I’d say this is one of the worst parts in life. Growing up, college had always been the next step in creating a fate I’d be willing to accept. Then college came and went, and I was blessed to be chosen to travel the country for a year in the iconic Oscar Mayer Wienermobile. Looked at as the elite, I was spoiled for twelve months of comfort—not in the sense of luxury, but in the sense of security. One year later, I say goodbye to one of the best things to ever happen to me and I move home to Sarasota to get my head on straight and spend time with my family before a major move to God knows where because God knows who is going to hire me for my skill set of God knows what. It’s been echoed to me over and over again: IT’S ABOUT WHO YOU KNOW. CONNECTIONS. PEOPLE. Resumes don’t get you jobs. Relatives get you jobs.
Going from representing a multi-billion dollar brand to trying to figure out what can motivate you to get out of bed before 1 PM and what to record via TiVo is a strange and almost revolting feeling. I want to be important. I want to matter. And sometimes, I think I’d trade in those feelings for innocence and obliviousness again.
I’m not depressed. I’m lost.