Laid out herein is an attempt to codify my troubles. Perhaps, in more optimistic moods, I would rather refer to my troubles as my challenges. I'll spare the reader the tone of style that would indicate bitchiness, angst, ennui, etcetera. I'll spare the reader, my friends and loved ones, that which is an imposition on the reader,a certain painful tone, only until it can no longer be foregone. At this point, of course, I must make it very clear to those perusing this article, that if you are of the kind that will invariably roll your eyes at a person's suffering, self indulgent, trite attempt to illicit sympathy from his loved ones, let it be known that this is no attempt at self-deprecation, nor is it a petty need-to-fill bid for help. I will never ask for that, much less would I coy'ly drawforth. If, however, you can simply see it only as such, or simply wish not to read what is more important than such a misinterpretation of this writing, a personal attempt by a burning man, to find the answers that the questions of his daily life yield to an un-ending sense of stagnation, Go Now. Read my review for Training Day. I'm right.

You who would roll your eyes, who could care less if I suffer and strive, needn't concern yourself with my woes, if on a given day I even call them that. However, if you're not that cynical, and do have interest in me as a person, entity, acquaintance, I invite you to understand what I'm going through everyday. It's rather hard to put into one or two sentences. And I don't communicate all that well with others, so far as I can tell, with the exception of this little bit of space I've been able to carve out for myself. If you care at all, I invite you to read this. It may be a paragraph, it may be a hundred. I doubt that but who can plan these things? I need to spell this out for myself, and for those I love, I'd love for them to understand what I'm going through. It may or may not shed light on me. I may or may not be of that signifigance. But that isn't a complaint. It's an observation.

To begin, I don't know. Anydamnthing. Period. I'm clueless, bored, stifled, slow, lazy, indignant, and somehow, I still yearn, and awaken myself when the cause of such a collision with my daily affairs forces me to give credence to what's driving my vessel. I want to be a man of the world, and I was molded in a very limited space of inspiration to fill within me the necessary brace which great men use to flare themselves. The south is a cultural gnat. There's little to abrogate that. And I must maintain that I only blame myself. Surroundings and upbringing notwithstanding, a person is what a person wants to be, especially at the age of twenty. And I look forward to continually taking action and changing myself from a relatively ingnorant, inexperienced human being, to a fullblown Renaiisance man. I'll need these qualities to utilize my talents to deliver to the world the ultimate driving force in my dreams, which are essentially a few very big ideas that I one day could use to solidify my place in film history. But my yearnings are not even that simple. I want a million things, each of which left unattained will be one less part of my spirit to give me peace. Filmmaking is the superseding goal. There are so many other goals within me.

To attain them? Who the fuck knows how? From Eisenstein to Linklater, thousands of crafty motherfuckers. And I'm not one of them. I may never be one of them. There's my pain. I'm weak, and I must find strength. Evolution is slow, and I'm optimistic, and if I'm in a bad mood on a given day, it's because I'm wasting a given day. Action. I need fuckin' action. Who knows how to find it? Here I am, saddled with Abaissement du niveau mental, and what the fuck do I do? Eat sleep walk around love my friends, but none of that gets me closer. Makes me comfortable(and in the case of my friends, makes me count my blessings every day), but it doesn't fuel me because it's all external action set upon me. My friends initiate contact with me, and I'm barely compulsive enough to eat or sleep most of the time. I don't fight it, I just don't care. It's not really important, and it's not really getting me closer. Not at all. I wish I had the energy to initiate my social life, and of course, I reflect everyday on the fact that my friends seem to care enough about me to force me into their lives. And then, I let them down, at least in my mind, because I'm not as fiendishly entertaining as I want to be.

I'm not complaining. I have it great right now. I really do. I know my troubles, I know my desires, I know exactly what it'll take to fulfill my existance. I'm just scared for my future, scared to take action, and now I'm being forced to do so, much more, on a daily basis. I lack the brace to jump into it and swim with much confidence. Give me five years, I may be better, and if you do care about me, keep doing what you're doing, I love you for it. At this point in revelations, I'm asking for patience. I'm sorry I'm an ineffectual, detached dickhead. It ain't on purpose, and I'm trynna change.

This is sort of unstructured. That's another problem I have. I read great authors. Tight structure and a page by page, word by word sense of purpose is all that matters to me. My favorite authors, like all truly great authors, screenwriters, etc, are able to tie things together with manic, powerful, urgent tightness, but most of all, great human need. Can I do that? Ever? What the hell do I do it with? These are my concerns. I must face them alone. I have no time for love, no time for interpersonal relationships. At least I feel that way. If I did feel I had the time, I wouldn't feel I deserved it yet. Not yet. I can't drag too many too closely through this with me. That's my daily social struggle. But I'm thankful. Without my friends I'd be 5 years behind myself.