Odio a la primavera
Fandom: Orifinal fiction
Date Finished: November 27, 2012.
Word Count: Approx. 1000.
Written for: Creative Writing class.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: References to suicide and depression.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to soryualeksi for the invaluable help, support and inspiration she gave me when I was writing this!
Summary: Spring in Finland. Not really the loveliest season.
---
Odio a la primavera
It's a miserable day. It's spring and this is Finland we're talking about, so of course it is.
Early spring is the ugliest of all seasons. The protective layer of snow melts away and reveals the dark, miserable, dead ground beneath.
It's drizzling. Not what I call great weather for drawing, but here I am, sitting on the bench at a bus stop, freezing my fingers off. The streets are mostly empty in this part of the town. A few people hurry by every now and then, ignoring me in their search for the comfort and warmth of home. I place the tip of the pen on the paper and start to make tiny little lines. I'm surprised I can work on the sketch for nearly half a minute before --
When drawing, it is better to make a few long, clean lines than many short ones.
Yes, I've been told that often enough. I stop making a mess on the paper and glare at the gray rocks and concrete buildings around me. Not today either, then. Not that I'm particularly surprised I can't draw now. I wish I could write, but it's unlikely I could do that if I can't even sketch.
"Show, don't tell", "murder your darlings", "write what you know". Valid pieces of advice for writers.
Utterly useless to me if I can't get any words on paper to begin with. What do you do with all this clutter you can't put to good use? I want to stop thinking for one damned minute. Don't I always? It's worse now than usual, though. This time of the year irritates me.
Spring is a time of growth.
Spring is the season of love.
It's never made sense to me, all the Valentine's Day business and everything. It's so contrived and pointless. Yes, I'm a bitter old cynic. Sue me. Spring is a season I'd like to do away with entirely.
Finns commit most suicides in the spring.
I always thought people were most likely to kill themselves in late fall when the darkness and the wet weather got to them. Still, I can't say I'm surprised it's spring that brings out the despair in full force. I can sympathize. I love fall, the myriad of bright yellows and reds of the leaves, the crisp mornings, the way puddles of water freeze over during the night. The winter that follows is a time of rest. Spring brings out all the filth that was buried underneath the fallen leaves and pristine white snow.
In the moments before new growth begins to thrive, the ground is thoroughly repulsive. Barren. Desolate.
I've never liked spring colors, all the pastel shades as sugary sweet as cotton candy. The croci and tulips that spring up from the ground in their bright colors just highlight the ugliness all around them.
When you're depressed, you end up interpreting everything negatively.
I suppose the problem with spring is that as ugly as it all is before plants begin to grow and trees sprout new leaves, it is still worse to actually see all that growth and life around you when you don't feel like living at all. Someone who was once close to me told me, on a bright, beautiful spring morning years ago, "Love is a mystery not worth solving and life is a tedious chore at best". I wonder if he thought I could prove him wrong.
Humans are ridiculously vulnerable to injury, yet it is possible to break someone without ever threatening their physical well-being.
Humans have an astounding capability for torturing each other.
What I've never understood is why he felt the need to keep spreading his own pain around. Wouldn't you want to give people around you a better life than the one you had led?
Alcoholism, depression, and a high risk of suicide run in families.
Afterwards, there were so many people defending him and his actions. "He never meant any of it". Well hurrah. Destroying a few lives before taking his own, sure, no big deal. It's all excusable because he never meant anyone any harm. Right. I'm sorry I'm finding it a bit hard to muster up any sympathy for him.
It is possible to recover from depression or PTSD, but it takes a hell of a lot of work and support to do that.
I always thought PTSD was something only soldiers returned from war, or people who had been involved in terrible accidents or crimes, could have. Turns out that's either wrong or the definition of "terrible accident or crime" must be greatly extended.
You can be afraid of pretty much anything and everything.
Sociophobia - a social anxiety disorder, I think they called it. Funny, that, isn't it, what with how little time I spend indoors, locked away from other humans. There are more effective ways to keep people at a distance than to lock yourself in.
Throwing ugly truths in people's faces quickly reveals who is going to be willing to put up with you for more than a few minutes.
It's always disconcerting to find a person who isn't intimidated by such a frank and rude way of speaking. Luckily, most humans aren't that patient. I'm having a hard time dealing with the deluge of thoughts on my own.
It is never silent in my head.
I wonder if other people would find the constant commotion inside my head fascinating or horrifying. Depressingly, I guess it's more probable they would find it perfectly commonplace and not worth so much as a passing remark. After all, if there is one thing I know, it's this --
Humans cannot stop thinking.
Date Finished: November 27, 2012.
Word Count: Approx. 1000.
Written for: Creative Writing class.
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: References to suicide and depression.
Author's Notes: Many thanks to soryualeksi for the invaluable help, support and inspiration she gave me when I was writing this!
Summary: Spring in Finland. Not really the loveliest season.
---
Odio a la primavera
It's a miserable day. It's spring and this is Finland we're talking about, so of course it is.
Early spring is the ugliest of all seasons. The protective layer of snow melts away and reveals the dark, miserable, dead ground beneath.
It's drizzling. Not what I call great weather for drawing, but here I am, sitting on the bench at a bus stop, freezing my fingers off. The streets are mostly empty in this part of the town. A few people hurry by every now and then, ignoring me in their search for the comfort and warmth of home. I place the tip of the pen on the paper and start to make tiny little lines. I'm surprised I can work on the sketch for nearly half a minute before --
When drawing, it is better to make a few long, clean lines than many short ones.
Yes, I've been told that often enough. I stop making a mess on the paper and glare at the gray rocks and concrete buildings around me. Not today either, then. Not that I'm particularly surprised I can't draw now. I wish I could write, but it's unlikely I could do that if I can't even sketch.
"Show, don't tell", "murder your darlings", "write what you know". Valid pieces of advice for writers.
Utterly useless to me if I can't get any words on paper to begin with. What do you do with all this clutter you can't put to good use? I want to stop thinking for one damned minute. Don't I always? It's worse now than usual, though. This time of the year irritates me.
Spring is a time of growth.
Spring is the season of love.
It's never made sense to me, all the Valentine's Day business and everything. It's so contrived and pointless. Yes, I'm a bitter old cynic. Sue me. Spring is a season I'd like to do away with entirely.
Finns commit most suicides in the spring.
I always thought people were most likely to kill themselves in late fall when the darkness and the wet weather got to them. Still, I can't say I'm surprised it's spring that brings out the despair in full force. I can sympathize. I love fall, the myriad of bright yellows and reds of the leaves, the crisp mornings, the way puddles of water freeze over during the night. The winter that follows is a time of rest. Spring brings out all the filth that was buried underneath the fallen leaves and pristine white snow.
In the moments before new growth begins to thrive, the ground is thoroughly repulsive. Barren. Desolate.
I've never liked spring colors, all the pastel shades as sugary sweet as cotton candy. The croci and tulips that spring up from the ground in their bright colors just highlight the ugliness all around them.
When you're depressed, you end up interpreting everything negatively.
I suppose the problem with spring is that as ugly as it all is before plants begin to grow and trees sprout new leaves, it is still worse to actually see all that growth and life around you when you don't feel like living at all. Someone who was once close to me told me, on a bright, beautiful spring morning years ago, "Love is a mystery not worth solving and life is a tedious chore at best". I wonder if he thought I could prove him wrong.
Humans are ridiculously vulnerable to injury, yet it is possible to break someone without ever threatening their physical well-being.
Humans have an astounding capability for torturing each other.
What I've never understood is why he felt the need to keep spreading his own pain around. Wouldn't you want to give people around you a better life than the one you had led?
Alcoholism, depression, and a high risk of suicide run in families.
Afterwards, there were so many people defending him and his actions. "He never meant any of it". Well hurrah. Destroying a few lives before taking his own, sure, no big deal. It's all excusable because he never meant anyone any harm. Right. I'm sorry I'm finding it a bit hard to muster up any sympathy for him.
It is possible to recover from depression or PTSD, but it takes a hell of a lot of work and support to do that.
I always thought PTSD was something only soldiers returned from war, or people who had been involved in terrible accidents or crimes, could have. Turns out that's either wrong or the definition of "terrible accident or crime" must be greatly extended.
You can be afraid of pretty much anything and everything.
Sociophobia - a social anxiety disorder, I think they called it. Funny, that, isn't it, what with how little time I spend indoors, locked away from other humans. There are more effective ways to keep people at a distance than to lock yourself in.
Throwing ugly truths in people's faces quickly reveals who is going to be willing to put up with you for more than a few minutes.
It's always disconcerting to find a person who isn't intimidated by such a frank and rude way of speaking. Luckily, most humans aren't that patient. I'm having a hard time dealing with the deluge of thoughts on my own.
It is never silent in my head.
I wonder if other people would find the constant commotion inside my head fascinating or horrifying. Depressingly, I guess it's more probable they would find it perfectly commonplace and not worth so much as a passing remark. After all, if there is one thing I know, it's this --
Humans cannot stop thinking.