This Boy's Journey

Chapter Three: All Great Writers Do

Packing my things isn't all that hard. I've only lived in this apartment for six months and I haven't accumulated much aside from my bedroom essential, the items I don't send to the new spot I sell on the ancient relic known as FaceBook where forgotten family members dwell. I'm also thankful that I've been renting this place, which made it easier to dip, and the financier has given everyone a hefty advance. Wallace is his name, he had a startup tech company called Spiral Tech that he sold for a little less than half a kajillion dollars, and he's interested in investing in new ventures. I'm not complaining

I read over the shows files that Michael sent me about the show and it sounds pretty good. Good enough to create something with quality at least. It's a drama called The Source Code they're pitching to Netflix in the vein of Euphoria only with an older cast and I've already got a few ideas. I might not relate to that life...at all, but I'm able to get in the minds of people and understand people from the inside out. All great writers do. It's not about judging people, it's about figuring out how they work and building upon that. Michael was right about one thing, my perspective takes me to the next level. Beyond that, even.

I meet Michael at the airport outside by the curb. I've got my bag slung over my shoulder with the other bag pre-checked. I like having everything in order so I can relax. Slight control freak, but it's not debilitating. Michael arrives bagless and looks just as excited as the day at the cafe. He gives me another tight hug that nearly lifts me off the ground.

"You made it!" he says as if we haven't been speaking to each other every day for the past week. For the first time, he was actually able to pay attention to me for extended periods of time.

"I did, mostly intact." I look him over. He's wearing a red oversized Hawaiian shirt he has open and skinny jeans that shouldn't work and yet somehow it does.

"My bags? All my stuff is already there. I've visited so many times a lot of it built up over time."

"Are you still with Darla?" I ask. Through all our conversations, her name never came up. That wasn't so unusual, even in the past we had our own connection that didn't involve her.

"Oh, I thought that I had mentioned it to you." Michael smiles hesitantly. He looks slightly uncomfortable for the first time. "She moved to Portland last year to work for a nature magazine."

"I'm not surprised. She was always a really good photographer. "

"Yes, a young Leibovitz. We knew that the long-distance thing wouldn't work for us so we parted ways."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I say, as we walk into the building. "You two were really good together."

"True, my friend. Unfortunately, most of the time that isn't enough."

We find our gate after the TSA agents harass us and walk around to find something to eat nearby. I like being at the airport more than I like flying. It's like being between two places, the past and future, between this destination and that one. You're outside of space and time where the possibilities are endless, and I mean that literally. It's the place I go to where I do my writing, which is one of the reasons why they manifest. Words are symbols and with the right combination of them, you can essentially "hack" the universe. I haven't written in the past several days, I've only been brainstorming ideas for this new show and where I want it to go. I try to enjoy the quiet before the storm makes its way out.

We find a cafe with mediocre service and even worse food. My bagel is stale and the coffee isn't flavorful enough. If it wasn't for this fantastic opportunity, I probably would be more upset about this. People with me who have conditions like me are fighting this war between finding reasons to stay alive and creating reasons not to. It's far from healthy, but it's reality. I do my best not to let these thoughts pull me under. I refuse to. I actually want things to go my way. 

"What are you thinking about?" asks Michael, he's sitting next to me as we wait for our flight.  He puts his arm around my shoulders and looks directly into my eyes as if he was trying to attain the information himself.

"Nothing," I say, looking at him. I've been looking out the big windows at the planes coming and going, but my mind was far from my body.

"That's never true, not for you," Michael says, wiping his mouth.

"Just thinking about the fabric of reality." I smile, knowing that nothing I say could rattle him.

"Oh, that old chestnut," he laughs. "I'm in the middle of reading this Sartre book where he talks about the nature of free will and how that makes us anguish. You see, anguish isn't our natural state, it's having free will in a world that's chaotic that makes us that way."

"Yeah, existence precedes essence. Taking that into consideration, it's almost more rational to be irrational. I think we confuse things by building systems and telling people who they have to be and how they have to live their lives. Everyone following these rules that don't necessarily speak to their individuality, which actually hinders their free will. It's like they're attacked on two levels: the pre-defined purpose and the existence itself. We have to address it if we have any hope of fixing it. I'm not sure if we can, but at the very least we can try."

Michael stares at me, not blankly, but with profound pride and says, "I knew I picked the right man for the job."

Our flight number is called soon after and we stand in line to board. For some reason, the conversation we just had makes me feel even better about my decision. Irrationality is only determined by your perspective.