I remember when I was a lot younger, I had such an obssession with tragedy and despair. I loved doing compositions, and I would write about horror and random things that would come about in the story, sometimes I would write about a man that ends up dying in the end, or a character that kills herself in the end. My stories usually doesn't have an ending. I loved cliff hangers. A man would be trapped in a place which he cannot escape as the monsters drew towards him, or a girl who has a shitty mother ended up just as she was.

I also recall how my teacher humiliated me in front of the class. She had poured a bucket of water on my burning fire. She said I was rubbish, and that my randomness made everything so ghastly. This horrible teacher trampled all over my self-esteem. She had no respect for me, obviously she preferred my friends over me. To her, I assumed, I was just this common girl who got lucky and ended up in the best class. I looked at her with spite, and I still hate her. She was like an exact replica of my parents.

Of course if I took her seriously, I wouldn't still be writing now. I would have succumbed to bad typing and speaking bad english. I like being a free man. That is why I like to write.

I guess you could say that I'm some kind of an 'artist', which I am not. I look at myself as an art enthusiast, and all I concentrate on is drawing people and faces. What I do is not creative. The truth is, art to me is just 'pretty'. I love art. I love colours. I also love control. My kind of 'art' is controlled. To draw a face is just to draw. As you do more, you get better in getting the right tones and controlled shading. How do you convey an expression? Through the subject's eyes. And I cannot do that. Somehow to me, everything ends up looking 'sad' or mysterious. I cannot convey happiness and love. It's just not something I do. My art is not creative. My art is control, concentration, dedication, black and white.

Writing is different. Writing lets me explore the depths of my soul. It's so cheesy, but it's not like I care. I dream of living by the sea, or in a forest, with moss or sand beneath my feet, and I would be a free man. I dream of answering to no one, and write as much and as passionately as I could possibly imagine. There were instances in my life, where I wanted to write something of great length, that it could be called a 'book'; but suddenly self-doubt came and engulfed me with questions about myself. 'Am I up for it? Do I have what it takes? Am I good enough?' That had put a stop to my dream completely.

I am shit at argumentative essays. I am always subjective, and I write with such ego that it's impossible for me to be wrong. I am not objective, which contributes to the reason why I have such a pessimistic nature. Which is also why I always turn to narrative writing. It allows me to be pessimistic and depressed; it allows me to discover what I can do; it allows me to be creative. Writing can be colourful and energetic - it needs no control of strokes or concentration.

I wish to be a free man.


But what a dream! What rubbish is emanating from my mouth! Oh, how could a fool speak of such insanity.

Labels: drawing, dreams, stupid obsessions, writing