By Lewis A. Beach
…the story is about a guy who can’t seem to find meaning in and to his life…
…a guy who works the bare minimum and is proud of it…
…he gets by and isn’t noticed, he clocks in every day, he’s reliable.
…the story is about a guy who like many others, he’s lost his passion…
…he used to make movies but no longer, the very act seems futile…
Hobbies are expensive and passion requires follow through, he doesn’t bare the necessary requirements, not any more.
A career or a project like making movies is to have a religion; its purpose is to extend mortality but also to fill the interim moments.
Being an artist of course suites a life of melancholy, it also does well to those who don’t do well…in a general sense.
But he’s an atheist and he doesn’t do well with it…
…the story is about a guy who has no luster anymore.
…no sex drive and no want to fall in love.
…everything that once turned him on…now annoys him.
…he could once hold the floor in argument but now seeks corners and hides in them.
Drinking and having friends, like the artist and his legacy, are designed to leave a mark after the person has left this world.
But now he sees no value in the endeavor, he knows that like him the universe will also die, and nothing will be left.
…the story is about a guy too brave to kill himself but to cowardly to live.
…he’s embellished with cliché.
At one time the cliché would be the drunken artist, and then the depressed train wreck writer guy, and then the obsessed moviemaker…now he’s just a guy that sits at home and watches shows about serial killers.
The museums of time no longer fascinate him.
That’s what films are; they moments and movements and are full of light and they shine and the hope and the often crash and dive but that’s okay because they’re movies and they’re moments and those moments can be replayed and they can be seen again and loved again.
…the shimmer of the movie picture and the hiss of the sound and the truth and the lies. It’s all meaningless now.
The story is about a guy quite like a lot of other guys, but this guy wrote this poem and this guy was once depressed but isn’t anymore.
The guy that wrote this poem is sitting in front of his computer screen, he’s getting fatter and lazier.
He’s on Facebook a lot, is he wanting?
…and in order to get thin he starves himself for a while, and enjoys being ill.
He’s an unhappy fellow and doesn’t want to talk about it.