Existential Quandary

Writers are all tortured. Is there a happy author out there? Most musicians are happy, partying, living it up all the time. Same goes for movie stars. All performers. They know how to have fun. The writer, though -- pensive, introverted, insulated. Why? Why can't all writers be like Donald Kaufman? Because they aren't real writers. They produce Hollywood crap.

What am I supposed to do if the story of my life is a crappy, Hollywood script? Overly wrought with unnecessary emotion. Cheesy lines. Cheesy thoughts. No depth.

Is that true? I don't know. Everything in my head is really fucked up. I need to make a movie to get it all out of my head. It'd be good to get it out of my head. I can't seem to relate exactly how fucked up my head is with just words, writing. I need to turn it into a film. Unfortunately, it would have to be extremely unoriginal, because every stupid idea I think I have is not really mine. Isn't that point belabored? There are original ideas, and people are capable of them. It's just a cop-out to say that all knowledge comes from prior knowledge. Creativity exists. I hope it exists.

Everything that ever happened and ever will happen was already pre-determined by the position and energy of all the particles inside the universe right before the Big Bang. These thoughts I'm having right now are direct products of the way the universe unfolded. Isn't that sad? Freedom? Will? Creativity? Where does it all go?

God works. But I need definitive proof, and life just doesn't give me enough to accept it.

So. I write myself into circles. I write like I'm chasing my own tail. I write like I'm a snake eating its own tail. I never go anywhere with my writing. I'm always looking within. I should just tell a story. The most successful writers simply just told stories, and tried to comment on the universe as an aside, sneaking in from time to time. I need to stop tackling the universe head-on, going straight at it. I will always lose that battle.

SHIT I'M SO STUCK IN AN EXISTENTIAL QUANDARY RIGHT NOW FUCK FUCK FUCK.

OK. Better.