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.