It’s been three days since my last post, and for somebody who sees writing as an obsession and not just an unremarkable passion, I was already seeing physical distress signals that told me I was depriving myself of a release. I couldn’t sleep; I was shaking not in the manner you often see in people trembling with fear but something close to a feverish shake coupled by a profusion of sweat. Two days ago, I puked every thirty seconds until my throat bled that required me to undergo blood transfusion, of course I am joking. But yes, I had urge to vomit. And yes, I seemed to be exhibiting withdrawal syndromes. From writing of course. Though I am wondering how it would feel to have it with amphetamine or to stone myself for a month then give up the next month.
I love to liken the exercise of writing to masturbation. Their similarities are too elementary that I wonder why people use journey, freeing the soul, or reaching for the mind of God as metaphor for writing when masturbation has all the necessary elements to give life to the complexity, profundity, and catharsis writing brings.
Their only difference is that the latter, out of my high regard for decency is done in a place that provides me privacy needed to get the most out of the task. On the other hand, writing is less clandestine than pleasuring myself. So I can do it anytime. I usually take note of something extraordinary gleaned from something inconsequential and write them on anything my hand is holding on that moment: yesterday’s periodical, book I just bought, or bus ticket.
For instance this afternoon, I was seated inside a bus beside a woman in her mid-thirties. She wore black stockings that added contrast to the white trench-coat like dress she was donning . And that is without taking heed of the 35 degrees Centigrade temperature outside under shade! Thank her god, the bus was airconditioned. But I could see perspiration starting to run from her forehead to her powdered cheeks.
She looked composed and self assured that her choice of body covering was appropriate and she seemed to be standing by that decision. I secretly applauded her for her bravery in defying common sense or for placing more premium on beauty over anything we call sense. She’s a modern woman taking charge of her destiny and her body, a woman worth emulating. By whom? That I have no answer up to now.
Despite the airconditioning, that was anyway barely felt, the inside of the bus was unusually humid. So I thought of accepting the burden of her discomfort and fanned myself with the newspaper I had with me that time. Being naturally chivalrous, I fanned her as well.
Everyday we meet people in the street who strike us normal, simple, average, boring. We ignore them, go on our ways thinking that these people do not have stories to tell. That “real” stories are anywhere but around us. Hindi ito ang kwentong hinahanap ko, masyadong totoo. Walang drama. But if we look closer, these people are just waiting to be scrutinized, observed, and be the subject something that will be on the running for the title of the next “Greatest Story Ever Written”.
As for me, I am content with posting my articles in this blog and once in a while masturbate using my mind and a pen just so I can ejaculate life-bearing seeds of my thoughts conceived while plying the course of ordinary people’s lives.