Steve McQueen photographed by Graeme Mitchell for NYMag
Have you ever written something and then left it alone for a while only to rediscover it and not know where the hell it came from? I just went over some of my short stories and poems I had written and I came across this one unfinished thing, (poem, maybe?) and I just don’t know where the hell it came from. I don’t know what I was feeling when i was writing it or what I was trying to express. It’s strange. Here it is:
There is a deep sorrow in me, a mass of dark nothingness. A plague that lingers like a cancer that fades in moments of delight but grows bigger in moments of deep thought. I push past it sometimes and put a smile on my face, brave the world and try to gain “perspective.” But it lingers, taunting me, mocking me, reminding me of all my insecurities. ‘They don’t love you.’ ‘You’re not good enough’, ‘hide’. I am pulled in different directions, toward a light and a darkness the dwells in me. It’s a fight between my mind and my gut, my passion and my fear.
Inside, I’m screaming. It’s muffled even from within, my consciousness trying it’s best to suppress it and outwardly wear a smile. They call it putting on a brave face. It’s a fancy saying for lying. I’m far from home (That’s where it cuts off)
I wish I knew where the hell I was going with this.
Like it or not, the film industry is mainly run by men and men aren’t the best at seeing past appearances. If they see me with chapped lips, beat-up face and wool hat, they’re never going to cast me in a womanly, feminine role. Men are stupid when it comes to things like that.