Hypochondriacs have this peculiarity where they think they’ve contracted a disease at first mention of its description, as if the mere utter of its portrayal is enough to be a contagion. I have that mindset, except what I contract is aesthetics.  Ambiances and their accompanying entourage of enticing characters and contexts are the driving forces of my creativity. Depending on the mood/genre of what I’m reading or watching, one day I might sulk like a teenage, criminal mastermind - aimless in seeking my next objective, sketch fantastic beasts and where to find them to furnish my journals, or employ reckless inclinations at whim as some feckless daredevil.

I am, what you could call, an intellectual parasite. Being intrigued by such an expanse, I leech off inspiration for my sketches and writing from whatever fiction or aesthetic I can contact- because that is how I thrive.

Writing a script for my literature class the other day - consumed by a wave of the artistry - I realized that I had composed a lengthy paragraph detailing the framework of the backdrop, atmosphere, and stage design that actually exceeded the dialogue itself.  Is it any wonder why I want to be an architect? For me, the abundance of dialogue isn’t as crucial as the tone and destination. So much of life and narrative is birthed out of context and circumstance, with the right scheme and fabric - maybe that perfectly romanticized pause - an overzealous tedium can be molded into an enticing reminiscence.