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epistle log 30irty
twenty
two decades behind me, i gaze before me, around me. still academic, but entirely so: no application of my works, other than further academia. i read and write, others read what i write and tell me to read more.
the saint lives a career, one i am envious of. her life is her own: her house, her job, her career, her passion. she accomplished in a year and a half what i told myself i would spend my life doing. in so many ways, she has the life i want. but i cannot leave my school: i belong here. i waited and worked for this for too long. i cannot give it up.
then the other, in new york for the summer. at nyu for film school. working with a film company on top of it all. graduating a year early, then working on his feature length. by the time i’ve graduated, he’ll have begun his career, living his passion. living.
surrounded by those already beginning their lives or studying towards them, i feel guilty and sophomoric. i have a passion for sound, for music, for recording. i study knowledge and language. i want to produce, to do. i study more studying, thinking, theorizing, abstracting. were that i were my own doppleganger, to take both of these lives fully and life them to their justice. i do but sit the fence, and bide my wasting time.
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