I wish I had more time so I could be a better version of myself A fleeting thought in my head And I want to slap myself Why do we automatically think more time is the answer Or more anything When really all I’d like to do Is do one thing well
After watching Boyhood, I wonder if I’ve been looking at it all wrong. Perhaps there are no versions, but just me.
I know myself. I won’t finish any of them. Instead of letting them rot in unpublished limbo, I’ve lifted each draft — each false start — and pasted them below, one by one. Perhaps together, these fragments might create something.
And now, I can’t write that post here. The words were fluid in my head: a space where nascent ideas are brilliant, where then and now blend, and where everything makes sense. My shower creates a similar space: when I wash my hair, the running water and the mundane task at hand release the flow of thoughts. Yet when I sit and try to put these words down, I can’t slip back into that zone.
It feels odd, perhaps unnatural, to age in a place as timeless and anachronistic as Las Vegas: where night is masked as day, where clocks are nowhere to be found, where things happen and are never spoken of again once you’ve left.
Somehow, I’ve entered a special dimension — that space only accessible in these sorts of moments — where time truly reveals itself. Where time is more than the past, present, and future; and more than here and there and the line that connects them.
So here I am, molding jet lag into something productive and creative, carving out a bit more time.
There’s just something about dubstep. It is unlike the music I used to go out and dance to. Good dubstep wraps around you. You get lost inside it. Or, it can get lost inside you. It morphs and shapeshifts, it clings to your body, it transforms into the moment.
But there was a drawn-out moment—one that lasted years, for as long as we all swirled together, nourished through the music and the substances. The partying halted like a trainwreck, but in slow motion. As we came down, I tried to grab onto something tangible to take with me: a constant, or a totem from that world that made sense outside of it.
Although the book failed as a whole, particular moments ascend above the dry, soulless narrative. They pierce through the pages, as if the wave on my graph rises in the physical space in front of me.