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Description
When it comes it comes.

You don’t know much of me. The image you painted of my character was using only what was given to you. If the novel started out depicting me as someone who saw no magic in anything, but rather sought information for his own entertainment and ego boost, then the painting has only green if the mountains are filled with grass, the sky is only white if clouds fog your view of what should be behind them- it means I am yellow with ungratefulness (my reaction to my grandpa’s gift), brown all over from my fear of talking with people and finding solstice in my books and loneliness...

I feel like I’ve tended to do the same. Look at people as if they were a painting and not as if they were a mountain or a rock, you know, something which contains a lot more than what the image gives, something which has seen and lived through experiences which I cannot fathom at first view.

What if I told you I was still alive? What if all, the accident, the baby, everything was actually a metaphore for my old self having died and my new personality having been borned (once with the appearance of the book)? It would make a lot of sense. ever since that book landed in my hand, everything I knew of life and living changed. I no longer judge humans based on first impression, I know longer judge them based on what they look or how they behave- I have completely stopped judging anyone. I have realised I am in no position to do so, as long as I have not heard their life story. Only afterwards will I be able to judge, but until then, I will merely act as myself.

Description
When it comes it comes.

You don’t know much of me. The image you painted of my character was using only what was given to you. If the novel started out depicting me as someone who saw no magic in anything, but rather sought information for his own entertainment and ego boost, then the painting has only green if the mountains are filled with grass, the sky is only white if clouds fog your view of what should be behind them- it means I am yellow with ungratefulness (my reaction to my grandpa’s gift), brown all over from my fear of talking with people and finding solstice in my books and loneliness...

I feel like I’ve tended to do the same. Look at people as if they were a painting and not as if they were a mountain or a rock, you know, something which contains a lot more than what the image gives, something which has seen and lived through experiences which I cannot fathom at first view.

What if I told you I was still alive? What if all, the accident, the baby, everything was actually a metaphore for my old self having died and my new personality having been borned (once with the appearance of the book)? It would make a lot of sense. ever since that book landed in my hand, everything I knew of life and living changed. I no longer judge humans based on first impression, I know longer judge them based on what they look or how they behave- I have completely stopped judging anyone. I have realised I am in no position to do so, as long as I have not heard their life story. Only afterwards will I be able to judge, but until then, I will merely act as myself.