Let’s write again.
And let’s hope I haven’t forgotten how to stitch up with words what’s usually left gaping in life.
Let’s write about stuff again. My favorite petty things that have occupied so much space in my mind. Let’s write about work and home and the MRT; if you’re me, you almost always find yourself occupying one of the three.
Let’s write about thoughts again. Thoughts that dance so wildly they’re often more real than what I can touch with my oily fingers. The same thoughts that are so lethargic they make me sleepy just thinking about them. God they’re boring.
Let’s write about politics again and limit it to a single, icky sentence.
Let’s write about writing again and secretly gloat over the playfulness of the words–the inverted reflection of an ego so serious it abhors playing. Let’s express our love for words. My bread and butter. My feeding tube and others as well. The reason I’m digesting a huge piece of grilled meat right now and going to the bathroom to take a huge dump later. The reason why somebody on the Internet today, right this very moment, is probably cashing out while gladly taking my bullshit in. It’s a craft.
Let’s write about a girl again.
Oh, there’s always a girl–and that’s the first excuse. The first strokes of a craft well executed.
Yes, there’s always a girl. And the truth is, when everything coated with bull crap is wiped spotlessly clean, the only thing worth writing about is a girl.
There’s always, always a girl.
The one who breaks your heart walks away, another one comes creeping in. Freakin’ creeps they are. The new one’s not the same girl but something indescribable moves you to think she might still be the same, exact one.
Strange but maybe she’s even the same one you thought you got over with years and years ago. Sometimes, it seems to me, she’s all the girls in my life just wearing different masks and costumes. A trickster par excellence.
Maybe her ultimate role is to keep me chasing after her skirt–and you know how much they’re a killer when they’re wearing skirts. Maybe she’s a fishing line and I’m a fish. Only she’s the kind of line that doesn’t end and I’m the kind of fish who’s addicted to hooks. The endless whirring of the reel goes on.
Maybe–just maybe–it’s her purpose to keep creaming my heart until there’s no more and I’ll take the first woman I see by the hand on a drunken night in front of the altar just to fuckin’ get on with it and die.
Maybe her ultimate reason for living is to make me live.
But I guess I’ll wait for her and try to set an appointment despite her impossibly unpredictable schedule. I’ll search for her masked face in the crowd who don’t really give a shit about me and her. Keep on looking ’til I pick up her scent, that familiar fragrance of a kind of fear that has to be met like a man in order to feel like a man. And if I can’t sniff her out because she’s so elusive and rare, maybe I’ll wait some more and grow old some more. I’ve done it before and fairly recently.
In the meantime, I think I’ll tap on the keyboard.
Tap on it like a modern mating call ’til she shows herself–the love that won’t leave.
But come on. Let’s just stop this madness and write again.