I suddenly have the greatest urge to write another love story.
Most of the stories I've written so far have nothing whatsoever to do with love. The characters in those stories always end up killing themselves. Of the few love stories I've written, none of them are between a boy and girl. Strange. I just don't find that interesting.
I have also concluded that who we are now is the result of how we were raised. The culture, the music, the films, the friends, all of them mould us into people. Nobody was ever born gay, their preferences were altered as they were growing up, through encounters of different kinds. There isn't, however, the least bit of a need to categorise oneself. Freedom is the true beauty of life, even the tiniest ounce of freedom can give someone the strength to live on.
I have yet to complete the story about Lune and the artist. It is lovely, how he falls for the boy in his painting. Very human, he learns to overcome the fact that Lune has blue skin. I've discovered that society is incredibly unreasonable towards those who are different, and I have been more than patient and tolerant in dealing with it. Is it really worth living in fear? Surely life is not worth living unless we have nothing to fear?
I went to bed at 10 last night, thankfully, in the dark. When my sister came in at 4.30am, she switched on the light and re-arranged her things, making no effort to conceal the sounds. As a result, I was jolted from the comfort of sleep, and tried to block out the sound by listening to music on my mp3 player. She eventually went to sleep, and I was left tossing in bed, unable to fall asleep. Finally, at 5.30am, I got out of bed and took out my Maths textbook, hoping to find some consolation and comfort in the problems I knew how to solve so well. I only managed a few before I gave up, tormented by the pain in my nose with each inhalation. In the end, I turned to "Love in the time of cholera", read about a chapter before I finally felt ready to fall asleep.
Most of the stories I've written so far have nothing whatsoever to do with love. The characters in those stories always end up killing themselves. Of the few love stories I've written, none of them are between a boy and girl. Strange. I just don't find that interesting.
I have also concluded that who we are now is the result of how we were raised. The culture, the music, the films, the friends, all of them mould us into people. Nobody was ever born gay, their preferences were altered as they were growing up, through encounters of different kinds. There isn't, however, the least bit of a need to categorise oneself. Freedom is the true beauty of life, even the tiniest ounce of freedom can give someone the strength to live on.
I have yet to complete the story about Lune and the artist. It is lovely, how he falls for the boy in his painting. Very human, he learns to overcome the fact that Lune has blue skin. I've discovered that society is incredibly unreasonable towards those who are different, and I have been more than patient and tolerant in dealing with it. Is it really worth living in fear? Surely life is not worth living unless we have nothing to fear?
I went to bed at 10 last night, thankfully, in the dark. When my sister came in at 4.30am, she switched on the light and re-arranged her things, making no effort to conceal the sounds. As a result, I was jolted from the comfort of sleep, and tried to block out the sound by listening to music on my mp3 player. She eventually went to sleep, and I was left tossing in bed, unable to fall asleep. Finally, at 5.30am, I got out of bed and took out my Maths textbook, hoping to find some consolation and comfort in the problems I knew how to solve so well. I only managed a few before I gave up, tormented by the pain in my nose with each inhalation. In the end, I turned to "Love in the time of cholera", read about a chapter before I finally felt ready to fall asleep.
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