So now I found myself sitting at the bottom of the plughole (read yesterday), without a film deal and without a dream.

Actually I was dwelling in a cheap hostel on the border of little Mexico and Korea Town and this particular little death had mixed itself with a particular sickening obsession.

I would comfort my wounded soul by walking for miles upon mile in the acrid LA heat; I remember the feel of the dust and grime of the filthy city as it clung to my forehead, mixing with beads my own sweat and rolling dirty black tears down my sun burnt cheeks.

I would find solace in ice cream, tub after tub of Ben & Jerry’s (big tubs) devoured as I walked, eating it until I felt sick enough to throw it all back up.

It was the strangest yet most necessary time.

For if square one does not destroy a man, it most certainly reveals him (or her), peelings back the thick layers of culture, the thick shells of entitlement, the bravado of false optimism and the piety of religious faith.

It reveals him, as he truly is, mortal and dependent, king of nothing, owner of not even his own breath.

P:S: This is the 15th  in a series of blogs chronicling my adventures in Los Angeles . See “How the F@*k Did I Get Here” to begin the adventure.

2012 Copyright Seven Sentences – Geoff Talbots Story