I am mourning.
I am mourning. Perpetually. Every glance out a window a shot in a movie, every thought the first line in a book, every keystroke a project, every small item tucked away in a zippered pouch in the bottom of a box. My life feels demarcated into eras, shifting with my moods and abandoned friendships. It feels like an idea on the tip of my tongue that I am unsure I will ever be able to grasp or transform into something profound despite everyone's urges to the contrary.
"You're talented", "You're smart", "You have so much potential". Words often uttered without thought as to the pressure to monetize they create. Surely I must do something with my life. Surely there is something I am meant to do. Fleeting interests are the only thing that excites me but nothing draws me permanently. Nothing seems to stick. Perhaps I am not meant to have a "career".
I am cleaning my room: putting disused items kept for some sentimental concept of a future long since deviated from into a 10 gallon plastic sack. Each item is the memory of an era that never happened, an idealized future where I was happy and successful and doing things I loved every day. Sepia tinted eras like that only occur through lens and shutter. The real world is grainy and rough. Scratching to find meaning, skipping from one groove to another. An oversized t-shirt that you keep just in case you find yourself wanting to paint. You never do.
Each morning I struggle to find the motivation to swallow motivation in the form of a pill. The days are colder now and I am prevented from going out of doors; there is no longer an escape from the noise. The sunset, a golden hue, streams through my window and casts a ray of nostalgia through my mind. I can't let go of the past, a present I was too young to experience. Perhaps if I strip away everything I can finally move on. The memories are safe in my mind and soul, I remind myself. And so the 10 gallon bags pile up.