Since I can't find a love to motivate me, I suppose that I should start writing for its own sake again...
Momentary Engineering sure is finished. As of yet, the film has left no permanent marks of change on my daily life. It was a brief vacation from the status quo, but I'm now quite sure -- it will be virtually impossible to repeat. It was a sweet spot. A moment when compromise was in the air. A project we all cared about. Now, everyone wants to move onto their personal pet project, but personal pet projects rarely inspire group love. You are the only person who wants to kiss your pet.
I watched Shawshank Redemption, and kept thinking that surely I would write if I were in prison. But somehow, I can't write now, here, presently. I suppose, here, as in prison, I have to come to grips with the fact that writing can not free me. Writing will not free me.
But I don't know what else to do.
Is Los Angeles just another nostrum -- an arbitrary event toward which I can delay? Is it another carpet to get tugged out from beneath me, like New York?
New York's a lot like love. It seems real romantic from the outside.
What exactly is it that I'll be able to do in Los Angeles that I can't do here, that I couldn't do in New York? Answers do not come flooding in. I fear that my ambition is great, and I may even have some talent, and I may even work harder than most, but none of it will ever total up enough to overcome my introverted nature. I am not gregarious or false, and yet, I'm trying to break into the world's most gregarious, false, and closed-off business.
Keep getting up.