SIDE ONE: WINTER

...don’t touch me...don’t fucking touch me...

Why do people concern themselves with such insignificant matters?
If you think about it each individual is so small
In relation to the rest of the universe.
In relation to an existence that could hold an infinite amount of information unknown to the human race, and perhaps incomprehensible to our finite faculties.
faculties that produce error
Perhaps more often than we’d like to admit.
Faculties that improve and then regress with age,
On a mind influenced by thousands of years of bias.
And these minds age and congregate until a vast community has been established.
A society of imperfection that often takes its popularity as truth.
Who assign status,
For a sense of security,
And a sense of order to initiate growth.

But at what point does this capital become so corrupt
As to toy with its impressionable users
Like victims in a murder house
Shadowing its imprudent infrastructure by exploiting insecurity
generating enough envy
To create a cycle going
And As our condition continues grows infinitely
We fall further into predictability

And even if you see the circle
Facts will fade into memory
And soon enough you’ll fall into the same pattern
Without a doubt or question to pass the time.

I didn’t ask to be born.
I didn’t ask to be raised by older parents who couldn’t love their child more.
I didn’t ask to spend hours on my baby bottom in front of the TV with mom.
I didn’t ask for this overactive imagination or
For my dad’s insecurities to be bullied into my head by that asshole ginger from middle school about that fat on my face and my stomach
I didn’t ask to fall in love with romantic stories, or to daydream as a boyish little elf that saves Princess Zelda at the end of the day.
I didn’t ask to care about these friends, or these women who I painstakingly try to make fall in love with me, because of this burning loneliness I didn’t ask for.
I didn’t asked to be forced into sports,
Or to hate them enough to beg my parents to stay home.
I didn’t ask for my receded hairline or my father's genes,
Although I did ask for his T-shirts
Looking like a bum is in style these days

It makes me feel like one of those real musicians.
The lefty hipster poser if you will.
I didn’t ask to fall in front on my face in 8th grade,
Listening to Green Day, and Kurt Cobain,
I just wanted to be the lonely sensitive feminist who couldn’t do any wrong too.
But also not give a fuck about anything at the same time.
I didn’t ask to hate being a man,
To be ashamed of this flopping dick between my knees,
I didn’t ask to be flawed.
But I’m still to blame for all the hurt I’ve caused
For the lies I’ve told
For this character I want to be.
The protagonist.
And from my seat, thats where I still stand.

But from your view I’m just another pretentious wannabe from Skidmore, Saratoga Springs.
That I’m not special.
That I’m not any different.
And that I won’t grow up to be anything other than who I am.
But neither will you.
You’re not special.
Anything that you’ve encountered or dealt with someone else has too.
You listen to obscure genres?
Kdot was underground once too.
You have anxiety? You have depression? I’m sorry to hear that friend.
I didn’t eat for a year.
Fifty pounds left with barely any hair on my head.
Well that didn’t make me any fucking different.
wearing your ethnicity, sex, profession, fashion, taste, or a big ass button on the side of your chest that says “I’m Mr. Authenticity”
But no matter how you try individuality still won’t exist.
But who the fuck cares if you’re eccentric.
I mean really who the fuck really cares what you do at all?
They’re too worried about what they’re saying, or how you see them than anything else.
They won’t lose sleep over whether you look presentable today.
Or you have the newest haircut or you’re skinny or you’re attractive or you’re fucking successful
Then why don’t we just do the things that make us happy?

Oh I can’t be an artist I need to be financially stable.
No you want status so you can impress.
You don’t want those unhappy fuckers from high school you never liked to think any less of you now.
I feel important writing a journal or saying what's on my mind.
What am I saying, I'm at a fucking liberal arts school of course I do.
I could’ve been a biochemist, or a psychologist, or a nutritionist,
And the fact that I even tell you that I had the capability to be one of those things tells you that i'm insecure about the income that I’ll make
but instead I’ll spend this time, to develop an opinion,
In which I’m sure you’ll have a say,
So if you think I complain too much come talk to my face,
And not aggressively post on your phone about how my opinions are pretentious or problematic
Or how you’re offended in some sort of way
Just fucking talk to me that’s why we’re people
We’re all as impressionable and flawed and were raised by smart apes that got a little carried away.
Because in the end we’re all just specks of dust in an existence that will be utterly pointless to figure out.
There's only right and wrong for us, because we made it that way.
Because we don’t want to be alone.
Because we’re all gonna die in the same place.
And when you no longer exist your insecurities, or your individuality, or you income, or your legacy will all be gone.
Because the protagonist will be dead.
And the story will end.

So why do I still care about whether or not people will like me?
Or whether or not you’ll see me as a success,
Or that I’ll always need more.
That I need to feel accepted.
That I need to feel remembered.
That I want to feel significant while I’m here
Why can’t I be happy with the way that I think or the way that I speak?
Why do I lie awake at night thinking of all those pretentious rich scene kids at my school,
Fearing they’ll think I’m pretentious, or even worse, basic?
Why can’t I feel proud of the music that I write,
Or justify my love for --- ------- every time I fucking talk to her at a party?
And why does nobody seem to want to talk about this?
Or acknowledge that this is here?
Surely there must’ve been one time in your life where you look around and wonder if everyone else is a robot that was programmed to simulate a life for your existence?
Do you think you’re better than me?
Why do I think that?
But I guess as pilots, don’t we all to some shameful degree?
I sometimes wish that it didn’t matter so much to me to portray myself this way.
I didn’t ask for this OCD but TBH i think it’s the only thing keeping my human.

Why can’t you see that?
Ella, why can’t you see that.
Why

EXT. JONAH’S DORM ROOM - NIGHT

Jonah stares blankly at his computer screen. Ella’s on Facetime.

ELLA
Jonah

JONAH
…

ELLA
(laughing)
Okay, I’m gonna go to bed. Goodnight, i love you.

The call ends, and Jonah stands up from his desk chair. The floor is covered with loose leaf paper, and open textbooks. He leaves for winter break tomorrow. He climbs onto his bed and pulls the comforter over him. A picture of Ella sits by his bedside table. He glances at it, and then shuts off the light. For the next few minutes, he considers logistics of how he will see her tomorrow. His back tightens. Soon enough he’s asleep.