May 28, 2009

I feel like because so much of what I post on here is not my own, I am fooling myself when I say I want to write for a career. Besides that, I’ve had the absolute worst writer’s block, and I wish I could write about writer’s block, but that’s been done before. Everything has been done before. Even if I walk around New York in a giraffe costume singing Rolf Harris, it would have been done before. There is nothing more amazing to me than original ideas, and it seems to come so naturally for other people, especially  people in New York City.

As an experiment, lately I have been trying out different subways from Port Authority to get to my destination near Astor Place. Yesterday, I got off the 1 train at the Christopher St-Sheridan Square station, and I felt engulfed by the triangle of streets and buildings around me. I stood still for about 10 minutes, and people went around me while I scanned the crowd for someone who looks like they would know which way was east, because that’s where I needed to go. I finally asked an old, learned-looking man, and he didn’t know. “I should start carrying around a compass!” I exclaimed. But the first part of my sentence was muffled, so it sounded more like, “uh start carrying around a compass!” I realized immediately after, and I didn’t look at the man’s face because I was too afraid to see a possible hurt expression before I just turned right and decided to try my luck. 

The whole day I walked around NYU wearing mostly black, clad with the glasses that make me seem smart, eating museli. You know that’s hip. But I felt so uncool. Not to mention inexplicably frightened by everything around me. As I walked into Roma’s apartment building, whose entrance has automatic doors, I was startled by the doors opening and I jumped back. The doorman said, “Take it easy.”

A lot of people tell me to “take it easy.” I think I already take it pretty easy, though. I don’t necessarily find my life difficult, and I’m content most of the time. My mother always says people who call themselves content usually aren’t. I guess I’m not content. Yet, I am. I know! I am satisfied. (Gotta love synonyms!) I think the issue here is that I am too comfortable. So comfortable that I cannot invent a gripping tale, especially a gripping movie, because I’m satisfied to the point of being hollow.


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