I am back in New Jersey, with a broken backspace button. I'm living in a room that allows me no space to roll my chair backward, because I'd hit the bed. But that's okay, since my chair has a broken wheel. Most of my posessions are in storage, and it's hard to not feel like my life is in storage as well. Of course, that's a foolish thing to feel: everyone knows I don't have much of a life to store. You could throw it in a shoebox and shove it under the bed ... as long as you weren't sleeping on an inflatable mattress, like I am.
I'm not sure if I should hang things on my wall, and pretend this is a home, or instead continue to live out of boxes, as though this were a hotel room, just a long road-side rest-stop while I try to dig myself out of debt and pile up enough cash to finish the trip. Should I continue spending my days playing on the computer, or should shape myself into that writerly routine that I imagined? I can't decide if I should convince myself that THIS is how it will be for a while, or if I should remind myself that this is just a bit of stalling until I can make a decision. All I know is, once again, I'm lost in the solitude of self-imposed limbo.
Whatever else is true, I worry. Should I find a part-time job? Should I look into aquiring more credit-cards, to float another move, now to Los Angeles, as soon as possible? The fact that I have no one to call, no one to discuss this with, is troubling. The fact that I'm trying to raise money to produce a short-film, while not having the money to buy a new keyboard, is troubling. I wonder where the next months will lead, but the fact that so much of it will be determined by money, is troubling.