I woke and thought about dying. I didn’t feel right or like I might expire.
There was no pain or discomfort, just a sense of something not working or not wanting to anymore. I changed sides but the feeling remained.
I was just going to end here. Not even a whimper. It was hard to get back to sleep.
I can see it clearly: the musty one-bedroom apartment, two floors up, a view of the parking lot out back. There’s a hotplate, mini-fridge, cabinet full of booze, an old wooden frame bed and a handicap accessible bathroom. I’ve seen it many times, and I will be there soon enough.
And I can see this: the back of a limousine, window half down, the warm desert air shuffling in as it begins to get light. There’s a band of pink strip lighting, mini-fridge, cabinet full of booze and a young woman curled up across from me.
The thing is that they’re same thing, just at different speeds.
Writers are the biggest cowards of all.
Instead of facing the horror of reality, they tire themselves out with fairy tales to get a better sleep.
I woke up to a new version of me.
I had been updated, apps added, files transferred, a digital share, files lost, bytes corrupted so much so that I no longer recognize myself.
No one will ever know that I cleared the path of fallen branches from the storm.
No one will ever know that I ever came this way or be aware of the things I felt when the sun was there or the clouds came in.
No one will ever know the misery I felt, the depression and angst and then the hope and glimpse of happiness.
No one will know the terrible things I imagined, my obsessive perversions, my sheer delight in that.
No one will ever know how much I cared and dreamed and wanted and regretted. No one will ever know any of that, no matter what I say, what I write, the pictures I take, the people I tell and beg to listen.
All of that will be gone, like everything else. And none of it will ever have mattered.
I was sick. That was my excuse. And I was tired. That too. Too much driving and holiday distraction. And my angst was at it again. All of those things.
I had to complete my submission for the Pitch to Page screenwriting contest for female-driven scripts. Think “Captain Marvel” and “Bridesmaids” – stories propelled by a central female character. My script The Sacred Whore was perfect. What could be better than the fantastic tale of a gang of prostitutes who kidnap a basketball team to air their views on America? This was it!
It was a nightmare getting started, restructuring and focusing, and then moving through it, but I did it and I almost feel good again. I mean, not really, but closish.
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