CONTENTMENT

AUTHORS NOTE: I know this sounds stupid, but please review. No, it's not going to stop me from writing, but I'd like to know that somewhere, out there, someone is reading this. Ha. And uh- I do like critics. And yes, those are different from flames. And... I struggle with Mark, so if he seems out of character anywhere, tell me.

Also, I have officially decided for myself that the key to figuring out Mark is figuring out exactly where to draw the line between playful and constantly serious. Like, a safe mix.

I am content with nothing.

The projector stands in the center of the room like some tired symbol of hope, constantly mocking me. Around it is a blanket of abrasive white paper with tired old scribbles on them- a prayer for inspiration. For those of you keeping up at home, the prayer hasn't been answered.

I've got six hours of amazing footage, fifty seven of shit, and many more of all sorts of shots I could never use. However, figuring out how to start in a way that pleased me was like attempting to shove a square block into a circular hole. It really isn't going to happen.

Apparently, I'm "obsessing over my damn film again" and this isn't really going to work for anyone. They all are hovering over me constantly, calling and coming over uninvited to attempt to see so progress. All they see, however is a slightly messier loft with more white sheets of papers and pens strewn all over the place. In fact, the most thing of the most importance I have done in the last week or so was chew on a pen so hard that it started oozing black ink. So I set it down on sheet of paper and let it spill everywhere.

I almost want a refrigerator just so I could put it up and show everyone my art work. And a gold star.

The loft has eloped into a dull dark black that really makes me sick to my stomach. The only light is the stray pieces that come in from the outside, orange-grey streak that wander in broadly and leave as they like and the sharp light of an alarm clock. It flickers on and off constantly because the power went out a few days ago, but it still reads the right time- 11:34. I watch the puffs of heat rise from the ancient cracked coffee mug of hot chocolate in small bits from it's post on the counter, billowing away to the end of the world.

The only sound is water dripping from the upper levels and into the loft. I set up a bucket under it and it plops in at a inconsistent unreliable rate. It stopped raining an hour ago, but the water still falls. It doesn't matter too much to me.

The alarm clock on the front table blinks 11:36 at me and I really guess I could go to bed soon. I don't want to.

My eyes dance over the projector and I grunt and pull myself off the couch, surveying the enemy for a moment. I know my problem is not figuring out how I want to start. My problem is realizing that this is the beginning of the end. This was the finale. This was officially saying goodbye to Roger, who was gone. To Mimi. To Angel. This was finally moving on and letting go. This was trudging past something that didn't exist anymore and moving on to something that did.

I look at clock again- 11:48. The lines on the eight shift into a new number.

Ho. Ho. I am stand corrected. It is 11:49.

My fingers work their way over the comfortable buttons of the projector in the dark. Play is not hard to find. Silently- only with the slightest click of the reel, the uncut footage rolls together in a jumpy mirage of thoughts, feelings and emotion. I can feel myself being catapulted through all time, everything that ever happened, in merely a matter of seconds.

Christmas. New Years. Valentine's Day. April Fool's. Last Month. This Month. Last Week.

I can't stand it. It all goes so fast.

Last month, Roger was running through this very room with his guitar and this idiotic grin on his face, screaming old forgotten rock lyrics will attempting to play the appropriate cords. Last Month, Maureen was sitting on that very couch with her arm around Joanne's waist, whispering something that was obvisiously suggestive in her ear. Last Month, Mimi was giggling about burnt toast and sour cream on one of the common lazy mornings. Last month, Angel was alive.

Last month, we were happy.

Where did it all go? How can something that was so simple a month ago become so complicated? How does it get so hard to survive?

There is a shot of Maureen making a kissy face into the lenses. There is a shot of Joanne laughing about something that was probably stupid. There was a shot of Collins reading from one of his philosophy books in an attempt to make them understand. There was a shot of Mimi rolling her eyes from her perch on Roger's lap. There was a shot of Roger attempting to write a song, muttering under his breath and cursing at the ceiling.

There was a simple, quiet sort of shot of Angel softly playing her drums.

Where, I can't help but wonder, has last October gone? Fuck, where has anything worth living for gone? Why, in a loft that was once lighted, warm and full now completely empty- all accept for one stupid little film reel, rolling away as if it can take the place of reality.

Why, I have to ask myself- like some naive three year old child, do people have to die?

I slam the projector in frustration and it stills, blinking the one shot with a maniacal sort of insanity only seen in horror movies and only described in books. I want to scream, but merely growl instead, ripping the reel from the projector in hopes it would just, please, stop. The machine lets out the most god-awful animalistic shriek and the reel rips.

I lied. Now, it's about four hours of good footage.

The screen abruptly fades to a bright sort of white. White like hospitals, endings, and empty, useless paper.

A rather large drop of water lands in the bucket somewhere distantly and initiates a harty sort of plop from the bucket. The ginger-light from the apartment across the street flicks off.

I feel myself sink to my knees, wondering what any one of us did to deserve this. What anyone ever did to deserve anything.

It is midnight.

For the record, I am still content with nothing.