It felt strange to spend quiet time in a place I'd known to be reckless and rowdy. Everyone had moved out of the house except for piles of garbage, silverfish and myself, who occupied a small room with a desk. There was never mention of giving me keys, instead I reached through the broken window pane and turned the knob, entering the dark, quiet house.Close to Hollywood and the bustling hordes of people though I preferred this house's solstice, where I found reflection and hours of contemplation. Inevitably, I would get lonely not writing, taking pills, shooting a Nerf shotgun and racing myself on the slot cars; and would call a friend. I was rich in that I had a motorcycle to ride, a roof over my head and a place to spin thoughts into stories. I longed for home for some unknown reason. There was nothing for me back north and yet the loneliness got to me and I squandered energy finding people to hang out with and not writing words.
At times like that I feel writing is a curse, this nagging, lingering specter that haunts me and reminds me of pressing deadlines and opportunities missed. I need to write more, more but the problem isn't time. The problem is me. I invent problems and throw obstacles in my path instead of finishing the project and moving on to another article. I long to not write for anyone but myself even at the expense of losing an audience. I've turned my passion and perspiration into a vocation. I had the place in beverly hills, drinking $28 drinks at the Beverly Hotel but something said I needed to get home.
And when I got here all I found was a $200 check and a summons for jury duty.
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