the cat's eye

It has been three years, well, actually almost three and a half years since I finished film school. Despite a few lovely silver linings, this period has been very heavy and difficult for me to bear. It started with breaking my leg, then the break-up, then the lack of a breakthrough with my film, then having to leave my home and what had become my country, then a year of nothing in India, then a period of looking for work and not finding work.
Of course, in all this I met and married M, which was the high-point. But as for my progress as an individual... well, something's just kinda collapsed. And I keep getting hung up on the fact that I'm 29 and that for the past 3 years nothing has been achieved - nothing stupendous for my resume, no outstanding awards or accolades, heck, nothing even finished. How many novels I've started! How many mediocre short stories, and poems just kinda sitting there growing old!

I would like to reclaim my life and say that I'm 26 and the last 3 years never happened. I wish I could start fresh, with resolve and direction, and meaning. But I've lost sight of who I am. I no longer know what to pursue, or how. Am I just doomed to keep making wrong turns?

The idea of plots burden me.
I find them terribly non-indicative of the absolute humdrum of life. The three act structure was the worst invention, damn you Aristotle.
but the pain, too, is monotonous.
What relief, when relief?

An unmarked plot, like an unmarked grave
leaves falling silently
over stories that never needed to be told
stories about nothing
that had no birth
as they had no death.

Sometimes I feel like all the important things have already been said, and all the literature and art that mean anything have already been created, and all that's left for the likes of you and me is Craft and Kvetch. We have no room for art, but we are, indeed, crafty. And when the desire to be crafty fades, well, then we can always kvetch about it.
But that ache inside you that says you must create something
that's been stilled.
art stillborn
art still born
art not born

you can play with words. But the meaning will always be the same.
empty inside out/
vomited ulcer bile boil pus boil
nothing of meaning

scream scream scream scream scream

WHERE IS HENRY MILLER WHEN YOU NEED HIM?????????????????????????????????????????????