I am retiring one of my phones, that one that came out of that ended relationship. I’ve had good times with this phone and for the most part, I had loved the fact that it game me something to write my thoughts on while I wasted my life away, waiting for that lover who never ended up coming home. It gives me pleasure to reread these things again, thinking how odd my brain chemistry would have been at that time, or just how extremely bored and desperate for action I was. I wanted to write, the phone gave me something to write on, the relationship gave me something to write about. Eventually, I’ll get started.
March 04, 2008
Revisiting writing once again. Mostly out of boredom, but generally out of the sheer desire of getting somewhere, doing something which is purposeful, something which might outlast me, at the very least outlast the inquiry of my own children, in case I grow old enough to have them eventually.
What to write about? Well, I don’t know. Something tells me that I am not that inspired to create these days and for the past recent weeks, but I still want to believe that mere desire to create something profound (?) or has the mere hint of artistic or literary ability would squeeze out that budding creativity and inspiration out of my early-on tired young soul. But what do I get out of it? Zilch. Nada. Nothing but hours spent digesting bad TV and chewing food which I know I would eventually think twice of re-experiencing again for the simple guilt of having to look at the mirror days later and again tell myself (as if I haven’t told myself enough already) “I need to get back to the gym.” or “I’m getting fat.” Times like these, I wonder why I even bother trying. Seriously.
My iced white mocha isn’t doing that good. Ice has melted on the surface and soon enough it would have diluted all meaning to my drink. Ice is harsh, it’s devious, it’s cold. Might as well be bitter. But hell, we’re in good terms, ice and me.
The cinnamon swirl isn’t doing that well either. All dried out and old, I must have felt pity for it subconsciously when I got it. It’s like an overly made-up doll screaming though the glass counter, “Eat me!” It called to me, no, cried out to me through the glass. It must have spent the whole day crying out to those glazed doughnts as they were getting picked one by one, while she wasn’t (it had to be a she), left behind to brave the cold torture of the dessert cabinet’s precisely calibrated thermostat. And as she saw my eyes run through the display thought that her time had finally come to realize her full potential like those other cinnamon swirls that came before her.
Pfft. I could easily get my sorry, frustrated-writer ass to draw up some cinnamon swirl drama in less then ten minutes. That’s when you know your inspiration has either hit rock bottom, or as wishful thinking would have it, the best has yet to come. Looove it. Nothing like kitsch to start my budding career.
Funny how the moon manages to show itself at random times when you perfectly don’t expect it. Along with the discomforting feeling of having another day of your life end and the fear of having to go through another day of it, filled with unexpected moments. I like the city after dark. I don’t know if it’s just that I don’t see much of it during the day, as what my job would not allow me to do, while I’m typically drawn to the gravity of my bed and soft pillows in those times of daylight, or I’m just more comfortable at night, in the dark, knowing that some sorry lamppost or proudly glowing neon sign reveals itself to the world, while they get neglected during the day. I absolutely have no idea what that just meant but I’m sticking with it. That statement just is made up of too many words, and it counts in for mileage on a post.
By some odd reason, the wind has stopped, and I can hear the voices from the other tables a lot clearer, all at the same time, while the mosquitoes gnaw on my skin and feast on my blood. I wish I could spend nights like this for days on end. Sometimes I wish night would never end and that I am not subject to sleep. I just think that nighttime sleeping is too much a waste of time.