Tuesday, November 24, 2009

A note to W.B.

Dear Writer's Block,

You always come back and bugger me and make that...that blank word document loom larger and whiter than it already is, perhaps to emphasize how my creative juices have dried up. Well, just so you know, you're one of the cruelest things to invade my system. Ever.

Writing fanfics (or poems or original short stories) is my personal stress reliever, but yes you come and add to the burden. *sniffs* I just hate you!!

Tomorrow, in our six-hour break, I hope you decide to just melt away with our library's air conditioned atmosphere. If you don't, I'll do my best to kill you--which means, I have to don't write anything at all. Which means I have to take a break. Which sucks.

But if that's the only thing that can make you go away...well, I don't have a choice. Ta-ta! :P

Yours truly,

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Tempus has Fugited

Written in longhand: 11 PM of November 10
Typed: 9AM of November 11

After a couple of years, this is the first time I’m writing a (sort of) diary entry in longhand. I always go straight to the computer and type away when thoughts sprout out, but the laptop’s not here—I requested my father to have that junky piece of technology repaired again. I’ll still post this on my blog today though (with the palmtop and with that broadband wireless as slow as perhaps the biggest tortoise in the sea).

Writing like this felt somehow different. Typing is a bit oblique. Writing in longhand, on the other hand, makes me feel as though the pen’s a direct conduit of my soul, that the ink represents the thoughts I’m yet to scribble. At least I feel that way. It makes this entry really mine—even the uneven letters of my handwriting seems to tell me, “we are your trademark!” (be that as it may, I’ll still post this in my livejournal or my multiply. It’s one pet peeve of mine to leave something “imbalanced” or “incomplete” and writing this just on paper makes me feel like committing a little crime against my online diaries).

Anyway, the second semester of my junior year commences in six days. Tempus fugit, indeed. I spent my sem break with Haruki Murakami (it feels like I’m really with him as I read his What I Talk About When I Talk About Running), Anne Rice (as I read her pornographic fairytale The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty, which triggered a long string of rants from me), and Geoff Ryman (as I finished the first book of his Wizard-of-Oz inspired novel, Was. Two books to go!). All in all I think this is a fruitful sem break. I didn’t get to read anything on my actual to-read list for vacation time, but these three authors made up for it. I learned a lot from them and I’ll apply the lessons in real life.

I’ve lied low on my e-social life for quite a while but I’ll get back to it as soon as I completely organize the little “clutters” in my real life (when is that, I wonder?). It’s nothing much of a sacrifice, but the internet has been a part of me. It’s…well, I see it as some kind of a “boyfriend” (what an analogy!)—cool off for now and we’ll get back together as soon as everything finally falls into place.

I’m writing this entry because I want to blather. No truly interesting topic prepared beforehand: I’ll just rely on the flow of my mind. It will probably break the cohesion of the paragraphs if I say something about how beautiful the stars are or if I wonder where we get the stereotype attitude of coloring the stars yellow despite the fact that there’s not a single yellow star I can clearly see (save the Sun of course). But what the hell. I’m not writing this for school.

I know there are people out there who share this idea with me. People who think there’s something very beautiful in spontaneous trivial things. Or spontaneous trivial thoughts.

I remember someone who, like me, can find magic in things that most people dismiss as something trivial. She saw beauty in the delicate lines of the clouds. I saw beauty in the symmetry of the heaped up pillows after I made the bed. She talked about her dreams. I talked about my daydreams. We talked about angels. We imagined how angels used the clouds as pillows and how they dreamed, if ever they dream at all.

She’s a precious thing in herself and I know she knows this. If only a lot of people see the world through her eyes, then maybe the world we live in today isn’t like the world we live in today (and with that I just added another item to my miles-long list of “ifs”).

There are some things that even if I find something beautiful about, still show something very unsightly. Like now, as my mother marched into the room fagging, I can make out different beautiful shapes in the smoke. But she’s still polluting the air and it can trigger my asthma (and I HATE asthma attacks. Who loves them, anyway?).

Then there are some things that though so beautiful are still transient. A rainbow is the ornament of the sky after it wept; with its seven vibrant hues, it seems to console the world that acted as a basin for the sky’s tears. It's there one minute and gone in the next. It’s just a fleeting thing, like a person’s external beauty. Time will gnaw away this vain mask and in the end what we’re left with is what’s inside. That thing at your core, that’s what really matters.

Like now..my zits are breeding again, but so what? At least I get to release what’s inside, even if I’ve turned into some form of nocturnal creature. Er…or maybe not. My mother’s death-glare is telling me I shouldn’t torture my body clock, especially that the school days are approaching. Perhaps I’ll just type this up tomorrow….

Off to slumberland! Ta-ta!

(crossposte to my livejournal)