s02e12 - thoughtce
last weekend, a cinematographer asked if you do much in the industry lately.
you said, no, not really. you're struggling to balance your full-time job with literally any other kind of life.
later, she said,
"I screwed around plenty after uni, but in this industry you get to 23 and you just realise, fuck, I need to buckle down."
you replied, "I'm nearly 24."
"well, time to buckle down then!" she said, laughing,
and part of you died.
today your boss signed what you feel, melodramatically, is your death warrant. a further two months at this client site that has been slowly poisoning your soul for three months already.
you were congratulated by your boss and your contact at the client site.
you earnestly fantasized any injury that might give you a break, just a few weeks, away from this.
you wake up from the two-hour exhaustion induced nap you took as soon as you completed your 40 minute commute home.
scrolling Instagram, you see all your friends on-set together. you feel envious of their freedom, and you resent the fact that you weren't asked to be a part of it.
but then another part of your brain reminds you that you were never able to prove your value in that environment. you always thought you'd be something special. your academic performance was always good, never exceptional, and you never really did anything worth celebrating. you thought that would change when you became an adult, but I think you're starting to realise that you'll die like the unfulfilled masses— wishing you could do it all again.
a girl tells you "you're a great actor" as you're both dozing off in her bed. you laugh softly and thank her. you fail to believe her, because you know that you could be, you have it all in your head, but as soon as you're in front of a camera, you can't pull it off.
you read some substack entries from last year in a prototype of this blog.
you notice how you used to write. unfocused, tangential, trying far too hard to sound clever. desperate. optimistic in the face of a situation that, in hindsight, was completely doomed.
you used to write to put out fires. even if it worked a few times, the house still burnt down.
it kind of embarrasses you how earnest you were, how open you were about the fact that you were just writing love letters.
you're still a mushy bitch, though.
anybody who shares a bed with you will tell you that you're a human heat-pack. but as rugged up as you get in bed at night, you still end up in the fetal position trying desperately to get warm. you're only ever truly warm when you're exchanging body heat with a, typically, much colder person. it evens out. they don't get too warm (hopefully), and you're saved from the cold-sweats you break out in.