Flanked by sleeplessness and exasperation I lay wide-eyed, my listless thoughts drifting above shallow straits flooding of smothering purposelessness and spudding self-loathing. I try to rummage for missing words, broken syllables and unfinished sentences at the corners of my recent memory, chucking out the drawers, prying under musty rugs. I am in pointless desperation to put proper names to anonymous clouds that have taken dwelling in the dankness of my room. A thin fragment of it floats above the murk but when I try to reach it, it dodges my grasp, quietly sinking into the bleak mush of world-weariness and exhaustion. Somewhere a story, a verse, a prose, a sonnet is waiting to happen. Meantime, all I have is a wisp of undifferentiated nothingness. A splintered paragraph suspended by cataclysmic dreaming and shallow breathing.
Monthly Archives: October 2008
Thanks to my olympian talent in cramming and procrastination; I’m deluged with commitment backlogs that will make overdue bills in Congress seem as natural as Pamela Anderson’s boobs. Now I want to shriek and perform horrific suicidal acts (I am actually mustering up several ways on how to end my life creatively). It’s not helping at all that my current emotional quotient has the stability level perfected by Norman Bates.
Oftentimes, I daydream of one near-perfect day spent undisrupted, wasted in a hammock where satellite feeds are repelled beyond Pluto, rendering my mobile phone blissfully useless and mute.
Then I’d snap out of the reverie and have a good chuckle.
Cliche would have it that laughter is a good medicine. Whoever started the myth must be an idiot. I would like to personally meet this guy and eventually dispel his illusion with the help of my reliable baseball bat. Sting even provided an oxymoron for this: “I’m so happy I can’t stop crying, I’m laughing through my tears…”
I then shrugged and heaved a sigh. Started inching a way out of my obligations. Gah. Gah. Gah. Gah. Still waiting to feel better but I looked up towards the horizon and saw a blanket of ash, of ominous grey. So much about optimism. Where the fuck is Mary Poppins when you need her?
Moral: Procrastination is a virtue.
Absolute physical confinement, unless it’s absolutely necessary to go out. An irrational impulse to not see anyone, except on business (with one or two notable exceptions). Doing things out of sheer necessity — excretion, personal hygiene, sustenance. A sudden disposition to abate. Reduced attention span, ergo reduced comprehension abilities, ergo, eruption of learning handicaps. Abrupt change in whims. Recurring violent moodswings, against everyone and no one in particular. Extreme desperation for meaning of roughly everything in the moribund moments of solitude.
This is my life redux. Mid-life crisis? Probably. Too early? I guess. Everything organic, leveled to the mechanical. Sartre would have risen from his grave, grumbling See-I-told-you‘s. Not that bad though. It’s just the way it is. It’s a stalemate so far, but wait until I shed blood.