Phantom Of The Opera And Sherlock Holmes

 It can easily be said that I love Phantom of the Opera.  I’ve loved it since my freshman year in high school, when we did a medley of songs from the play.  (Which oddly enough, did NOT include Music of the Night.)

Anyway, I’d thought about this idea for awhile, but wasn’t sure how to go about it until recently.  Now, I’m writing up a storm with it.  I’ve concocted a novel that combines Sherlock Holmes and the Phantom throughout the second act of the play, and I’m taking components from Susan Kay’s novel, the original novel, and the play, as well as Sam Siciliano’s combination of the characters, and Conan Doyle’s original stories of Holmes and Watson.  Not to mention I’m giving the story a twist that has never been done with anything that Holmes is involved in, to my knowledge.  I’m making some parts of it first person, from Holmes’s perspective.

So, yeah, there’s that.  Plus, it was just a flimsy excuse to use a couple of these awesome icons I stole from another Phantom-lover’s diary.

Now, on to more serious things . . .

I think that sums up best how I feel.  Forgotten.  And I know, maybe I shouldn’t.  One can argue that I do have a few friends.  And it’s better to have a few friends that can be relied on than a bunch of acquaintances you can’t, right?

Except, who can I truly rely on?

And I know that if I continue on that train of thought, I’ll sound like I’m blaming others.  To a degree, maybe I am, or maybe I want to.  But I know that it’s not completely other peoples’ fault.  I know I don’t reach out like I used to.  In so many ways, I don’t want to.  I’m so sick and tired of being hurt, yet it’s a rather comedic irony that I’m being hurt because I’m pulling away from others and therefore feel them pulling away from me as well.

Maybe I don’t like the mundane.  Maybe I look for excitement, betrayal, secrets, etc., where there are none.  Maybe I’ve just gotten so used to drama, my mind imagines it when none is present.

All I know is I want to come back to New Jersey, but at the same time, I don’t.  But we are.  Yet . . .

Oh, Hell.  I’ll come back and write when my mind is better suited to do so.  Even if it’s repetition, I’ll write more on these thoughts later.