Right.
The idea, initially, was to write a story every day. To make
up small and big things and put them in words and leave them as they are –
messy, pointless and meaningless – because what matters more here is that I get
the cranial exercise that I need, so that I could keep writing the things I
want to write.
That idea eventually downgraded into simply writing something
every day. It doesn’t matter what; a story or a blog post or a sentence, it
doesn’t matter. It just needed to be from the brain and heart.
Then real life came along and wrote itself, leaving most of
everything that couldn’t catch up.
These days, it’s rare for me to be here, sitting in front of
my computer with the night at my disposal. These days, I live more in the
office and only return home to peruse the bed, and the toilet, and the dining
table for the occasional breakfast.
These days, I wrote only for the desperate need to fill in
the pages of a magazine that doesn’t want to admit that it’s understaffed, and
perhaps a little overworked.
The scary bit here is that every month came and went without
me being able to think about it. Life no longer presented itself like a piece
of art, which subtleties and abstractness can be observed to reveal the kind of
beauty you can smile to, or take to heart. Life now is a passing train that
occasionally shows you a wonderful view of the world, only to return back to
the caving darkness of the tunnels.
Life’s a lot less beautiful when you can’t see most of it.
And it’s scary because I still wanted to see them all before I croak and drown
myself in the bathroom.
I don’t want to start every month already in the thick of
work, wrestling a growing pile of tasks that doesn’t know how to sort itself no
matter what program I wrote into it. I want to be able to spend an hour every
day to see Life, and being able to muse, observe and maybe write about it. I
want to know I can still see the world and actually care for it, instead of
simply shrugging because it doesn’t buy me another hour of sleep.
God dammit, I want to live. Shit.
Anyway, I’m writing this because I refuse to go into next
week knowing that I have, once again, failed to write something that I can constitute
as ‘Writing’. My job lets me write, yes, but when you have writing to get out
of the way for many, many other things, it simply becomes a chore; it serves
its purpose, but doesn’t mean anything more than taking the trash out.
Before all that, I want to feel a slight chance of
accomplishment.
Then there’s nothing in the month than can get me lower.
****
I’m having trouble writing things now. In fact, I’m having
trouble discerning between writing and Writing, or whether they’re the same
thing and that I’ve just intentionally capitalised one letter to make it sound
more prominent.
It’s frustrating. On one hand, I’m churning out soulless
articles that reek of the boring and mundane. On the other, I’m Writing about
nothing at all.
Clap them together rapidly and it becomes applause for the
unremarkable. It’s like clapping at a rock for being hard. Even that was better
cause for celebration.
I make as much sense as a broken calculator. All numbers but
no equation.
I’m only writing whatever’s coming to my head now because I
can’t think of anything else to write about, but I don’t want to stop just yet.
For once, I think I’m having fun.
****
How was the past six months?
Hectic. Crazy. A roller-coaster running in a whirlwind to
the latest dubstep track. A lot of travelling, which was good until it became
too much of a good thing. I travelled almost every start of the month and
returned home to weeks of unending work. After Taipei, which happened in June,
I told myself that I won’t be up in a plane again unless I’m headed out for an
adventure, and not to the next foreign convention centre.
For the past six months, I had travelled to Krabi
(adventure), Hainan Island (family adventure, plus obligatory Birthplace of the
Forefathers visit), Orlando (work), Shanghai (work), Singapore (shorter work)
and Taipei (crazy loads of work). I won’t be flying again until November, and
that’s for Siam Reap and Angkor Wat (adventure).
But I did get to see the other bits of the world, and that’s
always fantastic. And every of these places were beautiful, strange and filled
with fascinating people. There was always something new to see. I just wished I
could’ve seen it without having to rush back to the hotel in a bid to finish
work on time.
Other than that, life’s pretty much on a chaotic routine. The
gentler nights, I spent it with the people that matters. And I guess I can
always be glad of that.
I can’t complain, and I know I just did. But it’s truly a
complaint to myself. If I don’t cross out the Customer Satisfaction slips for
myself, I can’t expect the service to improve.
Here’s hoping that I can still find nights like this for a
hearty spot of word diarrhoea.
Man, it feels good to finally let it all out.
(Do pardon the stink).
Goodnight, people. And goodnight World.
