Throughout my stressful ordeal, I have found comfort in actually solving crimes. That is to say I have spent a large partition of my time watching Sherlock rather than actually doing actual work that could have just easily lessen my burden for the week.
However, this post is not to discus how my defence mechanism is acting up again. This post is something more. It's about John Watson.
I think the secret of making a successful series is that there is this sort of relatedness between a character and the wonderful architecture of the story arch. It makes as though the viewers are living in that amazing story as well.
However, I can't help but feel a sense of attachment to him. There were so many 'Sherlock' that took up huge amounts of my time. Right now, I'm questioning why I ever did so. Was it because I was indeed lonely? Was I trying to run away? Because in the end, I've always moved away. Not because no one cared. I mean for goodness sake, I'd be dead right now if I haven't got any. However, maybe perhaps it's just I wanted to be cared in another form. One I have yet to discover.
Anyway, bottom line was that I need to rediscover myself (I've always had this fixation to applicate art into reality). I need to find my Sherlock.
Why now? Other than the fact that I finished the series, today marks the birth of two people I have grown fond before. Another one was in January. But yes, this is to commemorate those people who have filled my hours before. To prevent me from thinking too much on my own. This is to you. And if you're reading this, I want to say that I am irrevocably in debt to you for bearing with me sometimes.
Thank you for the years and happy birthday.
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