nasty old stuff #1

took a peek at Ye Olde Gatula message archives and found some blather i wrote a lifetime ago. judging from the date, this was right after my very first breakup (yeh), a couple of days after i turned 23. i only half-remember what all this was about. which is probably a good thing. probably the most embarassing thing i'll ever post here. have fun! (or not, heh.)


22 november 1999
monday
10:12 pm

the entire day i've been with a desperation i had not felt in months. there was despair as well since each attempt proves futile. every approach i tried seemed wrong, with me trying not to think of all the rules i've been breaking. wrong images, disjunct words, inconsistent strategy, unable to even focus on one piece, to picture in my head a complete image/vision. it was like putting together a puzzle where all the pieces are from the wrong boxes.

living with stacks and stacks of books, i am painfully aware of all i have to live up to. these writers, dead or alive, did not simply write (an activity i already find difficult to do) -- they also wrote exceedingly well. well enough for their work to be found worthy of publication, inclusion in some canon or another, and as such, worthy enough to have reached my shelves. these writings have travelled a long way from the writers' desks. these works outlived or will outlive their creators and have gone farther geographically than the writers could ever hope to go.

i believe this in a sense is true greatness. at the rate i'm going, it's something i feel i can't possibly achieve. even filling this small space with writing has been far from easy for me. it is impossible to compare the blankness of these pages with the consistent march of words in theirs, line by measured line. like ants following a single trail of thought, sure that there is a definite destination that will make following the trail worthwhile.

this obsession with worthiness. what the heck for? the expanse of white space i must fill, i have yet to fill, i must fill adequately or well, taunts me. this yellow pad's lines have been washed off by months of cleaning my contact lenses. the saline drops hitting the page morning and night like tears, soaking into the pad several sheets deep. the result is an uneven rippled writing surface that provides more freedom, not a set number of lines that run eastward like some reverse sunset. or the earth's revolution. and try as i might, i cannot seem to meet the challenge.

i want to break something. the glass jar half-filled with salted water and whatever undesirable elements that seeped from C's crystals. i imagine myself an ant picking my way through glass shards, the salt water seeping into paper like a disappearing ocean, bringing with it these words and the memory of lines running eastward. if i were an ant, i'd follow these lines right to the very edge until i fall off. other ants may will themselves to sprout wings and fly towards what they imagine to be the sun. ant-like, i might knowingly step off the edge, antennae twitching wildly, the momentary sensation of flight like gravity in my chest.