I feel like typing about so many different things, but I don't feel up to it tonight. I don't have the heart to do it, and my brain simply refuses.
Yes, my expression is that of Philippe Jaroussky's in the photo above, hands and all.
Big headache. God, this is just so damn difficult.
I stood at the water's edge today, just looking at the sea and sky. I thought about how I love water, and how so many of my characters have died in it. I thought about my 'O' Level Art coursework, about the wave of nails engulfing the girl at the edge of the cliff. I thought about the man who stayed looking at his own body at the bottom of the ocean. I thought about the man who burned his house into a frozen lake. I thought about the deaf man who heard his own laughter at the bottom of a swimming pool. I thought about the poet/writer who leaped off a cliff. I thought about the man who drowned himself in a fountain.
I don't know why all my characters die. Sometimes, it scares me, because when I read the stories I wrote, I find a lot of myself in them. This is the poet/writer who questioned himself on his fall from glory after all his stories ended with death. He didn't know why, he didn't know how. It just felt the right way to end it.
He got depressed, he went insane. There was no other way to end it, and so he stood atop a cliff, gazing down at the deep, dark ocean beckoning to him.
And leaped.
Yes, my expression is that of Philippe Jaroussky's in the photo above, hands and all.
Big headache. God, this is just so damn difficult.
I stood at the water's edge today, just looking at the sea and sky. I thought about how I love water, and how so many of my characters have died in it. I thought about my 'O' Level Art coursework, about the wave of nails engulfing the girl at the edge of the cliff. I thought about the man who stayed looking at his own body at the bottom of the ocean. I thought about the man who burned his house into a frozen lake. I thought about the deaf man who heard his own laughter at the bottom of a swimming pool. I thought about the poet/writer who leaped off a cliff. I thought about the man who drowned himself in a fountain.
I don't know why all my characters die. Sometimes, it scares me, because when I read the stories I wrote, I find a lot of myself in them. This is the poet/writer who questioned himself on his fall from glory after all his stories ended with death. He didn't know why, he didn't know how. It just felt the right way to end it.
He got depressed, he went insane. There was no other way to end it, and so he stood atop a cliff, gazing down at the deep, dark ocean beckoning to him.
And leaped.
2 comments:
I like this pohoto ！
and like that girl
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