Suddenly
I’ve realized the truth behind my reality. I usually freaked out at social
events because I hate not having loneliness. The dark confines of what makes
up the inner chamber of my room is all I’ve been able to grow accustomed to. In any place I’ve ever called
home there was always a room where I could escape the torture of others and call the
space my own. My belongings, the little I needed to feel material satisfaction is always neatly packed neatly into whatever rented space I’ve managed to salvage.
I disconnect from the world and live in a transcend state of focus. It could turn out good but I can never stay
enthralled in one thing too long. It’s been music, an attempt to exploit
my feelings through sound, mostly sticking to acoustic guitar, writing novels
that I never get around to publish, or even try, video comedies created out of
script I’ve written, documentaries, and the video’s I like to think are art that
contain nothing but beautiful sceneries and the music I write while expressing
how that moment taking the photography made me feel.
Colton
always convinced me that my talent could go somewhere. He pushed me to take my ideas further so that’s what I always did. I spent hour’s alone typing scripts to
film with people I could gather up for the parts. I usually tried to create
scripts out of the people around me so that I could use them as my subjects. It
was a fun game, forming people’s lives, so that’s what became my goal.
My parents
hated my idea’s, my frame of mind, style, direction, they just hated all of what I stood for. My
dad was the heavyweight tough guy type and my mom was the type who just
followed and supported every idea or thought that he had no matter how rational it seemed.
“Can you
believe this kid,” he would say. “The runt of the family.” He would laugh it
off as if it was no big deal but it was torture. I was different than my
brother, the athletic one. I wasn’t unfit or anything, averagely built, but
they obsessed about the stature of their bodies. “Eat shit,” I’d reply, wanting
to say so much more but scared of the force behind those people. They became
consumed by their obsession to a point that they were becoming angry monsters. My
brother was three years older that me, a first place champion in high school
football and he thought it gave him the right to torture, belittle, and push me
into the ground as I grew up. I didn’t realize until I ran away that life could
be so peaceful, so easy.
I moved out
on a low-end job with aspirations of making it as an independent filmmaker. I
wanted to stick to my routs as a Canadian and try to express my city, Red Deer in the
light that no one ever cared to share. Every place has its interactions, it’s feuds,
it’s struggles and beuties, but it is only by the told that anything ever becomes known. I
wanted to mean something, make my life something worthwhile, and that’s how the
obsession of documentation came about in my life. It’s not just me who has it. I mean look at the world. It’s nothing but a bunch of people trying to mean
something and we’ve become nothing but an endless form of media pushed by the
public through the Internet with aspirations of acknowledgement.
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