Within a Mile of Home

I've decided that it would be best for me emotionally to go back to the States.

I intended to stay here until June, but considering how my being introverted and how that can be perceived by those around me, I end up being alone most of the time, and those around me don't want to associate with me because they think I don't want to associate with them.

But really, the reason I'm going isn't about my personality or my lack of social interaction. The reason boils down to one fact: I just don't want to be here. I want to be with friends. I want to talk with people who are on the same wavelength as I am and not just have it be on the computer.

So on Wednesday, I'm flying home. Hopefully, I may get some much-needed inspiration once I'm back in a familiar setting.

Although, just because I'm going back early does not mean I consider this a failure. I've certainly improved my German, I now a healthy supply of literature to help with further studies, and I have seen some beautiful sights. But I must go back, and have more misadventures with those I miss the most.

(keep in mind that I have a sort of flare for the dramatic at times)

And so ends another chapter of what I hope will be a long and interesting life.

The Review Must Go On

If you haven't seen it, Doug Walker has released a mini-movie in which he finishes Demo Reel and brings back the Nostalgia Critic. See here for details.

An excellent video, I must say.

In case you were wondering, I'm someone who actually liked Demo Reel, and it is a bit heartbreaking to see it go away (or rather, stop). I very much enjoyed the character interactions and the comedy.

But I do respect the creator's choice (if, of course, what is portrayed on screen is the true reason for bringing NC back, and not just 'supply and demand'), but afterwards, I started thinking of my own reviews, and how much I've changed since November, or even when I started out.

I asked myself a few questions. Why does this concept of passion seem to escape me? Why do I not feel like finishing the damn Clown story-arc? Will I be invigorated once I do? But most importantly, What happened to me?

What happened to the enthusiastic 15-year-old who had so many ideas and seemed to be only held back by schoolwork rather than his own lethargy? Why has he become so apathetic to almost everything except for his own neuroses? Is it the homesickness? Does the pain of his first break-up still permeate, even subtly so? Why has he become less confident in his opinions? Where is that confidence? Where is that passion? Why can't he work through it? Why is he so skittish and afraid now?

And what in God's name was he thinking somehow bringing in three fucking characters to review shit?


I've have never once thought about officially stopping, but as I sit here drowning in the memories the albums of DragonForce bring back, I think about how I can even continue if I just don't feel like doing a goddamn thing.

Passion

It has been said countless times that one needs to be passionate in what they are doing in order to succeed. Often, I heard this sort of phrase in the context of acting and internet video making (both fields I have participated in). The phrase goes something like this, "if you wanna do something, you gotta be passionate about it, because there's a lot of competition out there." And there inlies the problem with me, the word passion.

Simply put, at this point, I don't really have much passion for anything, at least in something that become a source of income.

I don't know if it's this Germany trip that has messed with me, but at times I just don't feel like doing anything. I start a few things (drawing, writing, etc.) and I just lose interest. I could work through it, but I don't really want to.

I don't know what I'm doing when I get back to the States. I've planned on going into film editing, but I never bothered to do anything about it, like looking up different schools or applying for scholarships.

I guess every detail that I've just laid may stem from one problem. I just don't care, but I feel like I should. And as such, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

That, or I'm just in one of my depressed moods again.

Or both.

"My goal is to not wake up at 40, with the revelation that I wasted my life in a job I hate because I was forced to decide on a career in my teens."

-Daria Morgendorffer

The Picture of Dorian Gray - Chapter 1

I decided to make a new post, so that my depressing diary entry written in third person isn't the first thing that people see.

Anywho, I was exceedingly bored in my German classes here, partly because I still don't fully understand the speech, and partly because I don't feel like they are trying to get me involved. So I spent my non-music classes today reading one of the only books in English I managed to find here, The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde.

What I knew of Dorian Gray beforehand was basically that it's about a guy who tries to obtain eternal youth by selling his soul (I think, I haven't gotten that far yet) and his portrait ages while he remains youthful. This story always intrigued me, ever since I looked through the pictures in the Great Illustrated Classics adaptation of the book in grade school. The last illustration was of Dorian stabbing the portrait, him becoming the old man with the knife in his chest, and the portrait returning to its original, youthful state.

And since then, this story had always been in the back of my mind, periodically coming to the forefront whenever a reference is made (like at the end of this old MovieBob review, for example).

The novel opens with the painter, Basil, painting the titular portrait while his friend, Lord Henry, waxes philosophical like the smartass he is. Though, admittedly, he is so for the most quotable character because, A) I legitimately found some of the things he says interesting, and B) he's the one doing most of the talking. Literally whole blocks of text taking up most of the pages are dedicated to his views on the world. Either this character is the megaphone for Wilde's voice, or he just intended the character to be a smarmy intellectual.

Two of my favorite quotes:

"and the worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic."

"It is only the intellectually lost who ever argue."

Henry asks why Basil does not want to exhibit the portrait, despite it being one of his best works. Basil explains that he put too much of his own soul into the painting, saying, "We live in the age when men treat art as if it were meant to be an autobiography. We have lost the abstract sense of beauty. Someday I will show the world what it is."

Basil goes on to explain how he met Dorian, and how he has been the greatest inspiration for his art (in terms that only an artist would not find homoerotic, though, this is Oscar Wilde, so who knows).

And so the chapter ends right before Basil introduces Henry to Dorian.

I admit, as much as I ragged on about Henry's philosophizing, I do find him to be an engaging character. The way Basil describes Dorian made me imagine some sort of Jay Gatsby type of character, but that doesn't seem to be the case from what I've read in the second chapter, however that's a subject for a later blogpost.

Insomnia

He couldn’t sleep. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t ease his troubled mind enough to throw himself into a dreamless stupor. Thoughts of her rattled through his head. How her skin felt against his hands. How the taste of her kisses made him crave for more. How he missed showering her with affection. How he longed for his return to his homestead, for he knew that she would’ve been waiting.

Would’ve. No longer. Sadder thoughts arise. Almost morose. How she broke it off a quarter of the way through his worldly trek. How she managed to find a new love and happiness within mere days after the ending. How even as more time passed, he is still hurt.

Even so, whenever they spoke to each other, there was never a sense of animosity. He still smiled when she told him of the happenings with her new love, no matter how much he died inside.

He is glad to still have her friendship, but the feeling of the darkest gloom occasionally blanketed him, giving him a perversion of comfort.

So he sat, and drowned his sorrows in music. No tears were needed, just the melodies to keep him from sinking further.