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It’s now been seven months of living in a closet.

That’s the only line immediately worth keeping from another self-pitying, entitled, raving, last minute, pointless, self-loathing diatribe that has already been scrapped and spat on. The opening line. So, let’s try again and try to salvage this mess.

I keep pulling myself from the cliff of a full-scale mental breakdown by the collar of my shirt, the magnitude of which would match the bringing of the brain fog four-and-a-half years ago. I can’t even call it a brain fog anymore, this is just how I am.

Some context: my roommates are animals and I hate them and am overworking myself to be able to move out (and also probably to avoid running into them), I don’t have a window or air conditioning, and my laptop’s keyboard is broken for good, so I haven’t been writing. There is good news, however. My actual computer is currently being shipped to me, just in time for the death of the dedicated understudy. Until now, I had just about snapped and was looking to give up on all things writing or video, a least, give up on showing them to anyone; although, I do still believe everything I’ve made in recent memory has been utter garbage. I’d say I’m washed up, but I was never good to begin with.

That being said, I have some new ideas.

The kind of breakdown I’ve been interested in lately I don’t have the strength to commit to. To crisis of consumption leads to the crisis of creation, and I’ve just about had it with both. Bartelby knew that consuming was a shameful act, staying behind his divider screen and sustaining himself on gingernut cakes and pieces of cheese discreetly delivered him. Consumption promotes inspiration, and unfortunately, I don’t have the stoic wherewithal of Melville’s character to remove myself from the samsaric wheel just yet.

Yes, you could say I finally have a few morsels left to keep me going before starvation seems the only viable alternative. Another short, one that will hopefully be completed unlike the phantasmic failure of Dark Chamber, this time only involving myself. I’ve never written a screenplay before, but I think I’d like to finally try something feature-length as well, after having several premises I’ve wanted to expand upon from the last five years, but never did for a plethora of reasons that will always compound in cowardice. And like the previous attempt at a short film, my bedroom plays a more important role than I do, and once again, my decision to go through with a more ambitious project like this coincides with my established plan to move. That’s how the last one only got shot halfway through. I still feel that bullet in my gut when I think about it.

The reintroduction of my computer back into the question also raises from the dead several projects that I can finally finish. I am the type of person who thinks once I get everything crossed off the bulleted lists, I can finally rest easy. I also know that they will go on forever, living in a constant state of overwhelmed. It’ll be good, even just to say I finished something. The return of the tenth grade gaming rig is only gonna make matters worse in my tiny New York closet, but I’ll manage.

I’m gonna keep saving and looking for something better with a little help from my friends. After a miserable, grinding summer, I can afford to give myself a little bit more air to breathe. I especially have not been eating enough—out-of-commission kitchen and pinched pennies—putting me in the most horrific, irritable mood. Not to mention, my self-esteem is at about rock bottom because I’m a huge loser and a gigantic pussy, to put it briefly, but if I write it out, maybe I can turn things around.

I’m disturbed because nothing’s changed. What happened is what normally happens when changes aren’t made: things slowly slip into the realm of worse-than-before. No changes necessary.