Shipping Out

Not for the first time, I am contemplating moving out.

The thing about living with your parents is that you have to go by their rules. And their rules are not always conducve to a writer who's concentration can be broken by the drop of a pin.

I don't know why other people can concentrate better than I do, or how some can just focus but I have a hard time doing both.

The only time I get to focus is when I write. Typing away at my keyboard or scribbling in my pad gives me the most unbelievable high. It's hard to be distracted from that and when I am, it hurts when that feeling is insulted.

I know they don't mean to, they just don't understand.

It's difficult to explain to some people how it is. The best way I can describe is that it's like living in a vacuum where you hear nothing but your own thoughts. There is a scene in your head and you hear a narration.

You have to catch that narrative and write it down without thinking. Edit later, write now. To correct them is to ask where they come from. You don't have time to bother with that, because when you do, you lose it.

It seems easy, and in a way it is because I love it, but it's frustrating when you lose the words.

In a way, doing this now is more like work to me than when I was at Ecogov. My time with my friends were great, but workwise I never felt like I was needed. Most days, I felt like I was doing a class research paper and just tagged along with whatever assignment was there.

It wasn't...work. It wasn't easy, but neither was it difficult. I never felt any sense of accomplishment, mainly because I couldn't figure out my role in the scheme of things.

Now...well, now I don't work for an office, I don't have a boss, and my assignments are mostly tentative (read: not sure how much money I will get out of it) but it's...well, it's work. I get up, do research, and write. It's hard, but each paragraph that get's me closer to the story that's shaping in my head is satisfying.

The irony of it all is that if I were still working at Ecogov, I could afford to move out.

Working at a coffeeshop, the best I can hope for is a roommate and the hope that I won't be as tired after my shift.

If it were me, I wouldn't want to work in a coffeeshop, but both me and my parents don't believe in handouts. As my friend Luis is fond of saying when I bitch about my problem, "You gotta do what you gotta do". I'm hoping that I actually make it.