I was rummaging through my old things at the apartment, pushing away old cobwebs, wiping off dust, and grimacing at the poor state of my once-mint-condition collection of comic books, when I came across one of my writings. IT feels so weird, detached from what my normal psyche actually feels like these days, and to read how serious my tone was, dyslexic and incoherent in some parts, verbose and pedantic for the most part, and how oh-so-melodramatic. Eww.. hehe please forgive me. It actually bordered on goth, and dare I say, emo.. even. ^_^ Much too far from the current Jejemon™ that I am today. Kidding.
I must have written this during college, on one of those rainy days in my boarding house, with the window to the back of my study desk, and I don't know, maybe a lamp somewhere. circa 2001. or 2002. Lol.
Presumably, I may have been sad about something, or someone, and it affected me greatly at the time. The only remarkable thing I can say is that this was actually the past ME. And people do change. And, I've also proven that you can actually write about nothing and get away with it, shortly before dying of boredom. Or not. So, without further ado, I give you.. past Me! (stop laughing already)
On the Verge of a Writer's Block
Ah yes, once again I have called upon you to relinquish the extra memories that have tried to edge out into oblivion. In truth, I have nothing to recount, and the past days have only been filled with schoolwork and remote cerebrations, the occasional lapse into ennui, and some forgotten invectives. All crumpled pieces of time, as I'm wont to tell.
I realize that all my writings are done when the day is sedated, with clouds in a low-flying, light nimbus, almost whitish-gray, just before the rain, and perhaps nightfall. It has been this way when the weather is humid, when the is air stifling with restlessness. It is rather sad to find this new fact, I see that only now. I realize that all my happy and light moods have been poured to my previous letters to a person I knew.. or at least thought I knew, and it's even more depressing to think that they're probably all burned, or thrown away by now. Each and every single one.
But, as always, Time has this irritating habit of going forward, caring neither for friend nor foe. That's the blasted reality of it. He just has to drag everyone in is wake. Either we make something of ourselves or not. Once our stay is due, we fade. This gives me an acute sense of everything closing in around me, like my golden opportunities are flying away at once, a paranoia about being painfully aware of details, yet forcefully stuck in young, baseless feelings. This means my mind is somehow paralyzed, ineffective during times like these, when days are stoic and lazy.
Not only that, but waiting only kills you more. Like this, for example. Do I not merely want to waste my time in this causeless jaunt too shrewd to a fault? Why shrewd, you ask. Then again, would you care enough to? Shrewd, I say, because anyone who comes upon my writings will discover more than my actions can ever tell. It exposes a side of me would otherwise never been seen in the real world. If my eyes were the windows to my soul, these words are the bolts that hold them to the wall. They stitch my time and reality into one flat plane, where they can be freely organized or saved for later consumption.
Isn't it rather obvious? That is the point of all personal writings. Journals exist to remind us of who we once were, how we once felt, how we once thought and acted, and how we wished what we wished for then, even if you wrote it just a few minutes before. While it serves to validate or vitiate your long-held principles, or to document your existence, it still serves our own personal, often selfish purpose.
It's just another tool for posterity. And rightly so, we must use it to our advantage.
Fortunately or unfortunately, too many moments go by unfiltered. They escape like air drifting through your Everydays and Anydays. Sometimes you may feel them, and sometimes you may not. But, sometimes, when something quite extraordinary in your eyes erupts, you will want to remember all the details, excruciating they may be, and perhaps, even the air, the very atmosphere you most often took for granted. Yes, even the air drifting through your Everydays and Anydays.
As for me, my desire comes from sporadic bursts of mental excitement spurred by the fierce anger at my ineptitude, my gruesome faults, my borderline sanity, and the creeping boredom that inevitably envelopes everything during cold, gloomy, low nimbus days. Some people will feel it, others are simply too busy trying to stay alive to care. Only through these words can I hope to bring threads for my own life story, that looking back on this someday might give me a glimpse of this long forgotten snippet in my actual memory. This craft of ours will have to grow into something more genuinely human, with the anticipated quirks and nuances a character is expected of.
But then again, I would not want to sound like a character. I don't want people to read me as a voice culled from the depicted imagination of some author. I don't want to be a voice with many moods and insinuations, all leading to a falling out, with continuations always surpassing the last, as long as the writer is alive. The difference of this story is that there is none. We are purely trying to live things out, to get something more out of our dreary days rather than slouch and grow tired even more.
Come to think of it, I do have something to look forward to after all. I believe I am invited to a birthday party by my very close friend and kindred spirit. Ah, how time eludes us yet again. Alas, I too must take off if I am to prepare myself for the affair. We shall continue some other time. Till then, my friends.