It appears that I have nothing to say, nothing to add, which is why I have been kept out of the circles. And all I can do is to watch on from the sidelines, straining my ears to try and catch whatever bit of information that wriggles out of the talking space. How I wish I could be a part of everything. But I am incapable, thoroughly, thoroughly incapable; and for good reason kept out of the circles. I would only contribute chaos and confusion.
When you have had a loved one suffer for a prolonged period from an illness, and then had to watch him die, the pain usually does not come until later. That is because at the outset of his death, you can still recall the agony in his eyes, and how he could do nothing save breathe – and sometimes even the breathing got frighteningly difficult. All the things he wanted to do he could not, and so little did he smile. For so long did you watch him in this debilitated state that you wished on many occasions at his bedside for him to sooner go. And finally when it was granted, and he went quietly into the night without anyone’s knowing, you felt a mix of grief and relief. At the funeral, you cried, of course. But otherwise, you kept reminding yourself that his death was a good thing, since his suffering was now no more; you tell yourself further that it was natural for a child like him, with his disabilities and deficiencies, to expire earlier, much earlier; and that it was merely nature taking course – and how could anyone get angry at nature taking its course; as if to rebel against the human mortality! So it was that you calmed your sorrow and appeased your sobs, and went back to distracting yourself with the endeavours of the living. But the days go by and his absence becomes more and more felt. It is hardly believable to you that he is gone forever; that you shall never again see him or hear him or be able to touch him; he survives only in the pictures and the memory, which to say cruelly little. You begin to forget about the suffering in his eyes; all you want is to see him one more time, breathing, alive, being himself, inimitable Ryan that no amount of memory can amount to. But there is nothing, not a single trace; for life departs whole. So sometimes, in your purblind desperation, you imagine, just for a moment, that he is at some place else, maybe at his school, and if only you went there, you would find him sitting in his class, playing with his friends, and then upon seeing you, greeting you with his cheery excitement – all as is perfectly preserved in your memory.
Every time she catches me writing in the office and I casually try to hide my screen from her curious eyes, she’ll ask me if I’m nearly done with my story, and sometimes if I think I’ll win the competition – or if she’s generous, laugh about reading my story once its crowned the best. In truth, I haven’t even began. Or I’ve began a hundred times and never once followed the tail to the heart. That is my problem; I’ve been writing so much on this blog and so frequently with prose of this short length that I’ve forgotten how to write any further than would a blog post normally permit. What a pity, what a pity! But please, lord of mercy, let me write more; plant in me a raging idea that will see no competition; let it light a sure path for my mind and let my mind have the determination and stamina to pursue it for as long as it would shine. Lord of mercy, let me write a most splendid piece for the crowd.
Being a copywriter is so easy. Why is being a copywriter so easy? Every time I am handed a new assignment, they tell me that I have three days to complete it. Within three minutes I’m done with it. How could they have thought that it was so difficult? What could have been so difficult about writing a few short lines and sprinkling a glitter on them with your imagination? It’s so easy that I am beginning to doubt the veracity of the job. What’s the point of being a copywriter if everyone, anyone can easily be one? In any case, at least I’ll have time to write about other things and still get paid. But what a paltry sum we’re paid. Almost like the salary of a mendicant – and indeed, the work of a mendicant!
I dreamt last night that I was having a most terrible day, but not the sort of tragic terrible; rather, a mundane terrible. My glasses broke into two. It was a brand new pair. Then I took out my old one and found that it too had broken into two. And so I had to put on the older pair which I don’t really like because its too rectangular and small for my face. I was also not having any particular fun in whatever activity I was participating in. It’s like being at one of those parties you don’t enjoy, and yet you’re staying there hoping that somehow something will happen and make it far more enjoyable; but really you already have a fantasy in your mind which locks your happiness in place, and no other circumstance would ever make you happy. So it was that my mundane day was terrible, and when I got home, I ran immediately into my mother’s bosom, hugged her tightly and started to cry about my terrible day.
I surmise that the cause of this dream was the discomfort in the throat that kept me coughing and jerking when I so desperately wanted to fall asleep. Lying in the bed was torture. And the torture must have made its way into my sleep as well.
The air, I’m not getting enough air. That’s the reason why I’m getting these headaches all the time. What I need is some fresh, healthy air. If only there were a tall hill, a mountain, I could visit, clamber to the top of and inhale its salubrious breath.
A plant was placed in my room recently. Green are its leave; all too green. I’m nt sure how much it has helped my cause; the cause of my breathing better air, that is. Or maybe it’s the soil that’s getting little particles in the air and my breathing those particles in is what’s giving me those headaches. I don’t suppose I shall ever get to the root of the problem.
I seem to have disowned all my friends because of this flu. No one talks to me anymore. Or more correctly, no one talks to me anymore because I don’t talk to anyone anymore. I just want to recover that’s all; i just want to be better, to feel better, to be hopping around again, to not be bogged down by this silly weakness; I want to be free to achieve!
It occurred to me just now: The truly crazy people are those who do not habitually suspect themselves crazy.
Some things I have an inseparable affinity to:
Surely, surely, they cannot think that I am a lazy-bones. What reason would they have for thinking me a lazy-bones – oh, this, this three days of non-work because I’d fallen ill, terribly ill, and those three days last week because of a family tragedy would give them good reason for thinking so. But I am an honest person, am I not? And I have even requested for more work in the office because I had gotten so bored, and boredom hampers the stride of time, and the stride of time is most important to the man who is bored. What an irony. But never mind the irony; what I want to talk about is myself, and why I am not a lazy-bones. I am not a lazy-bones because I know it. My motto is: The work, the work, the work. That might sound familiar to you. Or not. Doesn’t matter. But the point is, I am not a lazy-bones. I am a hard worker, and I work ceaselessly towards my destiny. And my destiny is in this industry. Is that all so hard to understand? Must I prove myself once more, when I return, that I am not a lazy-bones, that I am a diligent man, an aspiring man, the man who seeks to overcome all.
Caught a flu recently. Maybe not recently – about one week ago. Had it mild then, and thought I’d quickly recover from it as I usually do from these sorts of plebeian illnesses. You see, I always take cold showers during the nights. They say that taking cold showers like those will strengthen your immunity; and indeed, in last half year since I began this routine, I have barely fallen into a bad, persistent ill. So I believed that I was healthy and impervious to the microscopic demons of the air. And thus on Friday, after having a nice lunch at an Italian restaurant with the folks, and after I felt a little tingle in the throat after I got home (we had some fried calamari), I thought: here’s another test (which I shall swiftly overcome). But I did not get better. Through the weekend, I was bound to the couch by a weighty headache. And just when I thought I had recovered on Monday, it got worse on Tuesday evening. I came home to find the living room unbalanced on its toes. I sunk onto the floor, stared up into the five concave reflections above me, and wondered if that was what the world looked like to flies. Today, Friday, the illness is still inside of me. I woke up this morning with a congested nose and throat, but thankfully without a painful head. And presently, as I am writing, I am still ill; half my nose refuses to permit air and every now and then, a tickle tries to coax a jerk from my throat.
The idea that one will die is more painful than dying, but less painful than the idea that another person is dead; that, becoming once more a still, plane surface after having engulfed a person, a reality extends, without even a ripple at the point of disappearance from which that person is excluded, in which there no longer exists any will, any knowledge, and from which it is as difficult to reascend to the idea that that person has lived as, from the still recent memory of his life, it is to think that he is comparable with the insubstantial images, the memories, left us by the characters in a novel we have been reading.
And so I did what any grown man would; in the face of suffering and sorrow, I ran upstairs, hid myself away at a corner and began to cry.