Sometimes I wonder why I still write because all I type out is proof that what I treasure is worthless than a piece of gummy stuck on the sideway.
Watching horror movies should be an exciting relaxation.
But I hear the debating voices in my head; see a crucifixion in my dreams; spend time studying without a degree; isolate the already isolated life; and push myself to an unnamed cliff.
I cannot stop writing another failure about my thoughts on movies, just as I cannot stop staring at an ant crawling on the wall, thinking about deleting my articles is nothing more than crushing it.
Always write I still, always fail I already, yet always hope I always.
Living a life is not that hard if you don’t think about anything but what to eat for the next meal.
Socializing with people is not that hard if you know why you hate yourself and think all humans are waiting for their funerals.
Creating a script for horror movies is not that hard if you study quite an amount of murder-suicide cases in human history.
But creating an iconic horror movie is so damn hard that you have to be a misfit in society, you have to treat yourself and be treated as a failure in life, and you have to lose faith in humanity while working with a filming crew.
The movie will be banned, sued, and condemned by mainstream critics until it somehow becomes a legacy.
