It comes from watching Scorsese’s Hugo. I got myself some understandably generous empathy for George Méliès’ grief regarding his own abandoned ambitions. He’s thought he was too old for dreams, and that the world doesn’t accept neither acknowledges the dreams of creators, inventors and artists.
It’s the suicidal despair that makes one give up of all the fiery passion inside them and live some boring, common life. There’s so many wondrous dreams in my head right now that the simple thought of letting that happen to me makes me shiver in fear. After all, I couldn’t bear the life when I’ve given up of all of this.
This idea is a mindtrap, as it can sabotage my works. Fortunately so far I’ve been strong enough against it, but I am always afraid of how long it can last. For that reason I want to test it how far I can go, just so that I never have to face the abyss that seems to take one’s soul away.
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