I wanted to dissect what it means to be nice. That, unexpectedly, was difficult to write. It wasn’t that what it meant to be nice was difficult to define. It was my attempt at defining what it means to be not nice.
My early conclusion was that stupidity (including those brief lapses) was responsible for a person being mean. But I came to this while watching reality TV – I don’t think further explanation is required; people on shows which don’t require actual skill make me lose hope in humanity. (As an aside, who is watching these shows? Were they all on vacation as I was? There’s no reason beyond that.)
So, instead, updates.
I’m flying back to Malaysia tomorrow. Other than seeing my family, I don’t see much reason to be home. I don’t know if I’d call it home anymore. Is that sad? I can’t even tell.
I feel comfortable here. To set the scene: darkened room with only the table lamp and the laptop for light, foreign music, an open Word document, a book on mental disorders, and a sketchbook. (Writing that made me laugh; I sound like a mad artist.)
I think I was overly ambitious. I know too little about depression to write about it. Although, to justify my choice of subject matter, everyone seems to know too little about depression. Drawing helps me pin down scenes but I’m not very good at it. Every male hand I draw looks feminine, for one thing, and I can’t draw shoes. Blasted shoes.
Regardless, I have developed a fondness for pencil art. It looks less polished than a lot of other mediums but it has a lot of charm and grit. To end this boring tangent: I like pencils. I like erasers even more.
And, now, I’m hungry. What do mad artists eat, I wonder.
Well, at least if I don’t have the artist part down, I can do mad.