"Hate you. Hate Kansas. Taking the Dog. Love, Dorothy"
Pretty much. Shelby - 0, DC - trying to go Double or Nothing, when I got nothing. I'm crawling out of my skin to be in a place that I feels like home. What did I think would happen when I found myself some place else? My memories of hard times would fade into that storage bin for sadness I thought up once for a story I never wrote? This is the idea that went no where, like so many that I should have written down but didn't, then forgot what they were and felt bad about it. It's suffocating.
I am searching for purpose. Ha! Even the "script" I'm supposed to be writing digs for purpose for my poor characters. They too are choking under the weight of purgatory. I guess I knew waiting around was gonna be heavy, it always has been. Like my paper-made people, it's not enough to save someone from drowning just to throw them back into a different body of water. As if I could suddenly forget all those summers I spent treading water to pass the swim test at camp. Or moreover, all the days I spent swimming in Granddaddy Bill's pool, just waiting for the chance to go up and visit him, have a tomato and take a look around at the world from his point of view.
When did I get so tired? Treading water isn't that hard. I lack the common decency to just try a little fucking bit harder. Challenge myself. Stop being so scared of what people will think, of what might happen. I must have gotten that from my father, it certainly didn't come from his. Or maybe it did. This instilled since of Watch out! Be careful what you do, someone you know might see you"! He used to try to tell me that when I was a kid, a teenager, so I'd stay out of trouble. It echoes through my bones, and makes it much harder to see the truth sometimes. Dorothy went home because she wanted to be seen - in real life (whatever that is...)
Black and white is the option? I'll take midgets in technicolor thank you very much.
This isn't a movie, though. There is no happy ending scripted to sell out big theaters. This. Is. It. And well, often I think want my money back. Like cashing in a bad decision and trying a new one on for size. In the end, if it doesn't fit either, when it comes down to it, it's you who thinks it stinks. The refund has nothing to do with it. I chose to come to this District-ed place, and since I'm not gettin' no tax return this year... I better figure out what the hell I'm so hateful of before I make like Dorothy and wake up some place else, just trying to get home.