For a moment, Jim considers the idea. But somehow, the thought of sitting on the couch numbly watching actors move around the screen just doesn't seem... right. He doesn't want to see anybody eating, or running, or screaming. Doesn't want to see a world where all is well, unrelatable and artificial, nor immerse himself in the fictional struggles of someone else when he already has so much to process.
He's never been very good at sitting still.
"I need to... do something," he confesses, reaching for something, anything else to do, something to occupy idle hands before he reaches them inside himself and tears at what's left, unable to stop. Old habits won't work. But...
There's one thing they did together before, something that isn't part of his usual hobbies. An act that he found calming, even though he's not very good at it. And he needs to remind himself that he can do more than just destroy. "Can we paint?"
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He's never been very good at sitting still.
"I need to... do something," he confesses, reaching for something, anything else to do, something to occupy idle hands before he reaches them inside himself and tears at what's left, unable to stop. Old habits won't work. But...
There's one thing they did together before, something that isn't part of his usual hobbies. An act that he found calming, even though he's not very good at it. And he needs to remind himself that he can do more than just destroy. "Can we paint?"