This is something I’m doing merely of instinct, probably half in derelict hope to be proved wrong, in order to retain my belief in love, which still in a few ways is my only chance at redemption. I don’t know, I’m lost like a stolen sword, valueless and perilous in the hands of the vulnerable peasant, who might hurt himself with it in his ignorance. But I definitely had to write about it. It’s been so long since I wrote last, and caught in the whirlwind of business and my indulgence in my manic ecstatic flights unto a heaven shining and clean and dizzying leaps into hell, dull and desolate, I haven’t even cared to write to smother my soul, and unburden her from my weights.
I’ve been reading a lot of Freud (Sigmund Freud) and watching movies containing abstractly oriented sexual content (mostly incest and lesbianism) in relation to D.H. Lawrence’s twentieth century colliery novel, Sons and Lovers; and then I got to read Virginia Woolf in Mrs Dalloway, which give a rather quiet image of the twentieth century British upper class society with its chinks and show, where the reader who falls in the same category as me gathers her inspiration to speak out right from what moment they may be living, to speak their thoughts, because it is the flow, ‘The Stream of Consciousness’ to be exact, which builds up to the story of the future, to narrate, which may also be a tale of the past recollected through thought from the moment.
It’s horrible to be studying all this together, in the span of less than three years (as if writing ‘3’ in letters would make it any longer than it actually was) and I feel the insanity rattling loose inside of me. I am not like the others who are just studying for the degree, who can’t wait to begin writing criticism themselves with the authority they wish from more and more qualification they want from educators like these, having learnt nothing real in fact, or those who want to look artsy enough to be wedded with large gold dumplings and crates of joyful liquor into classy society of non residential kings and in exotic palace destinations. In these three years, all the things they made us read, in order to pass out of this torture, is not something I can unread, since it would require time turning magic, which sadly I do not possess. Like they would push the disastrous semester fiasco into old registers to forget, I can’t get out of it anyway.
I was looking for hope in the wrong place. I don’t know, now standing at the end of college, carrying the weight of the implications left hanging in the work of all the mighty writers and poets I’ve just read, or in the fear of fatigue, left untouched. I thought I was ready to read, but I found, in the most brutal way that I am not.
I found an old notebook, where I begun taking notes from the very recent (and creepy) novel, A Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and in my dark mood, I ended up scribbling all their names on a page from it. I didn’t like how almost subconsciously I penned down their names, I hated how I let them all become a part of my life. I hated myself for loving so much, and obsessing with all the little things, and holding onto their essence as a presence in my life, even so long after they had severed all their ties with me. I hated me in the moment.
I tore the page, folded it in quarter, and then with some trouble stuffed it into my cup of ashen waste. Here’s what I did – I lit it, and watched the flame die many times, but I kept burning it, until it was done for. I don’t know what pleasure I got out of it, and what made me decide to write it…but here, I definitely like it by now, I’ve been writing about it for quite sometime now, and it isn’t a choice from my past that I don’t regret. Not just yet.