I’m right in the middle of filling this blank space up with words, characters some would be quick to correct me. It is early morning of Saturday; I’m in front of the television that gives off soft glare, hearing Gus Abelgas’s glottal detailed narration of a heinous crime committed by an obese twenty-something. The ambiance of the living room makes me sleepy.
If not for the unforgiving fluorescent, I would have already stopped writing, climbed up the staircase and should’ve already been sleeping now. Thanks to the 40-watt bulb, I am still up until this time to continue writing. I thought of using this free time, the only one I have this week, to distill my rambling thoughts.
A friend told me that I wallow in the banalities of my writings. Although this isn’t the exact words he used, but the manner he said it sounded as strongly as ‘wallowing in the banalities’, that while I constantly remind my students that their writings should have a purpose, that it should comment, albeit subtly, on their social reality, complete with the trappings of an elegant utilization of the English language, my own writings have barely escaped the personal and the mundane.
I hate it when I do not write for several days; losing this very precious momentum I’ve painstakingly built, because of a long break, makes it even more difficult for me to gather enough propulsion to hurl myself back in front of Microsoft office and commence writing. I’m like a weightlifter suffering from massive muscular atrophy after a long respite. Or a soprano unable to sing an aria after a tonsillectomy. Or somebody whose former memory could be described as eidetic but stopped being so after undergoing three frontal lobotomies. On a second thought, one cannot hoard momentum, just like one cannot hoard sleep, time, or courage, when it comes to writing. Every day is a different day; a better metaphor would be somebody being on a labor bed giving birth every time he decides to put his thoughts into writing.
I just ran through posts I wrote years ago. At the very core of it, the entire act or reviewing posts of past years was nothing short of narcissism, and a blatant one to boot.
I find it remorseful reading old posts. They remind me of my latent naivete, still obviously present in my newer posts, but hopefully more subdued this time. I quietly enjoy mocking my former youthful decadence. But while I take pride in how I unreluctantly debase and berate my old self, no holds barred, like all narcissists, I derive an inexpressible pleasure from the act of reading my old thoughts, more like Narcissus staring down at his own reflection in the pool. The images I see may not be beautiful, but how the image appears is immaterial, the fact that they’re mine and that I come close to enjoying the covert exercise, are enough to classify this as self-worship in nature. One philosopher, his name escaped me, said that self-love is insidious.
So right in the middle of filling this space up with characters, these things occur in my thoughts. I cannot help from writing them down, for future’s sake. I find being afflicted with Alzheimer’s romantic. Though the idea scares me, reading these from the perspective of my Alzheimer’s-ed self is rather intriguing.
Now, I certainly need start to writing.