Watching “The Collector”, I realized I could never be a serial killer. There’s far too much planning involved.
I’m laying in bed, trying to sleep - a process that is deeply complicated by the fact that my sinus infection has relapsed with a Ju-On-type vengeance. And instead of pastoral imagery or the like, I find myself thinking about the Time Life “Mysterious of the Unknown” books my dad had when I was younger — specifically the story about the ghost kid who shows up at the beds of people who are going to die. Granted, it’s at a specific location…but still…creeping me out all the same.
Something’s got to give. I often feel pulled in one too many directions. There’s so much to accomplish yet, and so little time each day to spare. I’ve considered time management; a stricter schedule, perhaps. Yet, “scheduled” goes against my natural instincts. It’s a bit of a conundrum.
For some reason, anytime I start thinking about my age I begin to experience this rise of panic. It begins to squeeze my throat and tighten my lungs and the heart starts to race. What is it about this unassuming number that holds so much power over me? Why does it feel more like a countdown to the point where it is finally “too late” to accomplish something? I’m overwhelmed with the urgency to DO SOMETHING, FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS SACRED! And yet… I’m not sure what I feel like I must absolutely accomplish in order to be satisfied. Age is such a ridiculous thing.
I don’t understand people who use their bodily fluids as a medium for their art and then proclaim its deep meaning and symbolism. Why can’t they just fess up and say “I was too broke and lazy to go to the art store for new supplies”?