Week 39

     The other day while on set, I peered up into the night sky and felt my breath taken away. There were so many stars in the sky. More than one is used to seeing from smack-dab in the center of one of the most populated cities in the world. Yet there they were, planets and stars all twinkling above me. From where I stood I could make out Venus, Orion's belt, and even Betelgeuse. And that's when it hit me. All of these stars, every one dancing above my head, died millions of years ago. We just can't see it yet. We live life in the past; reliving events that have already transpired. And maybe, just maybe, someone else is out there looking up at an Earth where everything worked out?

     The other day I asked a friend who she would marry if she could only choose between past lovers. She knew right away who it would be and began to explain her reasons. My mind began to race as I realized that if asked the same question, I wouldn't be able to answer. My mind frantically bounced around from one girl to another, unable to permanently land on one. Naturally this led to an over-analyzation session of all my ex's and would be ex's. And then, as if the universe was bored, I inadvertently came across my "big" ex's Facebook page. A drunken night a few months back had led to me unblocking her.  My heart began to race as I scrolled through her page. She still looks the same. My head was transported back to the old times. I realized that I missed her. But then I began to wonder, is it just because I don't see a future with anyone that I now cling to the past? Could we have tried harder? Could things be different? Could I be happy?

     The other day I watched a short film. It felt like I something I could've made. Something I could've written. That is if I could ever manage to write anything. Seems like these days I can't seem to squeeze an ounce of creativity out of myself, no matter how hard I try. I see where other people are constantly creating. Constantly writing. I can't help but wonder what's wrong with me? How can I claim to be a writer and never do any writing? Why is it so difficult for me? Just seems like some things should come easy, especially if it's something you love doing. And if I'm not meant to be writing, what the fuck am I meant for?