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This is the fifth blog I now have opened. The internet is generous. My room, at a cost I think is ridiculous, grants me a space crammed with a single bed, a tiny closet, and a desk, but here I can feign all the riches I want, for free.
Graduation means I can no longer call myself a student. I have finished something- and this feels uncomfortable. Completion comes with responsibilities and I am always looking to stall any of that… I don’t like how “illustrator” wears on me as an entitlement either. “I am an illustrator.” I don’t know. If something sounds bad out loud, there’s something surely wrong in it, and every time I say that sentence, ugh.
Signal “four” with the right hand, and skip it left to right thrice from the face. That signals “immigrant”. I am an immigrant. That is what I will call myself, for now. Just a little bit, until I get used to the fact that I’m not a student anymore. Until I think I somewhat deserve the title “illustrator”.
Still, it is nice that one thing is over. It is nice… that I can now make appointments for the piano room and smell all the newly released perfumes and buy flowers and paint things I want to paint… I need to make use of S’ long hair before he chops them off. He sleeps much nowadays and stays still in the weirdest poses… And maybe I can try my hands into clay. If I am lucky, maybe I will find means to save up for a bicycle and a cello. And maybe, if I am lucky, I will be happy.
I wonder, will anyone be reading this? The longer the text one writes, the more it is ignored nowadays, and sometimes this works in my favor, while in other occasions, it doesn’t. I shall see.
