Lazy-bones

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.

Worst flu I’ve ever had

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.

Fare thee well

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.

Harlequin

If on occasions I appear to you as remorseless, then maybe I really am remorseless; worse, I have no feelings, no compassion whatsoever; I am an animal and at everything beautiful or tragic I look on with the cold, indifferent eyes of an animal. I have no become an animal by chance or by mistake; no, I have trained myself to become an animal. You see, when you’ve figured that being upset is no fun at all, and you want to stop feeling upset, you just will yourself to. You find methods of chasing away the unhappiness; and so soon does nothing matter to you anymore; everything comes as they do, and nothing really matters. The only thing that matters is happiness; if it’s not happiness, then you’re not going to feel it; it might as well be a pinching gust of wind.

Twice, and gone

Whenever the sun hits my face and I close my eyes, it always feels as if I could be anywhere, at whatever time period, and everything would as however I want it to be. Two chances I was given, and both I let pass. The first I watched walk swiftly away and disappear. The second I stood beside and fell to my own demise.

Ant-eaters

If you think that the ant-eater will come to rescue your plants, then you’re sorely mistaken. That’s because ant-eaters are incapable of rescuing fauna. Which gets you wondering why you had even hoped for ant-eaters coming to rescue your plants. Certainly, your plants were in a terrible condition, the leaves were full of holes and every root was being violated by fungus. And perhaps in your desperation, you turned to the ant-eater. You heard the tale from a gardener who once helped you tend to your plants; he told you that you really didn’t need his services if only you had an ant-eater. And so that idea must have gotten stuck in your head, so deeply that you could never really forget it, and whenever the chance presents itself for this idea to be used, the idea rises to the surface as does an urchin from the darkest trenches. Why are we even talking about ant-eaters? They don’t exist anymore.

Why I over-believe in myself

No one believes in me. In fact, no one has ever believed in me; which is why I have learned to believe in myself, and with excessive ardour; insofar as to have turned myself into a narcissist. That’s right, I sometimes believe that I am the best at what I do, or at least very, very good at it; and I would survey the others and find no one as exceptional in the craft as I am. Sometimes, they would struggle with a piece of work, struggle to ‘crack it’ as is the buzzword over there, and I would saunter over, ask what they were struggling about and in the moment I understood the problem, find a solution – an elegant solution. And if they somehow said that the solution was not rightly suited for the purpose, I would doubt their capabilities; for how could they not see the genius in my idea.

Nothing original

I am nothing original. Ever part of me is borrowed. I am an amalgam of borrowed ideas. Which is why I will always need something to build on. Give me an empty, and I’ll paint you nothing; but give me one with a couple of lines and a vague notion of what to paint, and I’ll paint you a Picasso. Maybe. One day, maybe.

He’s not a team player, she said – that’s what she said? I suppose it rightly appeared to her that I am not a team player; I admit that I have appeared to not want to work together. But this only happens when the person with whom I am supposed to work is incompetent; whose ideas are far flung from the purpose, whose line of thought is a rigmarole, and whose rigmaroles do not even excite or inspire. If however there is someone who can create work that impresses me, that can make me go “how did I not see that”; yes, then I shall gladly cooperate – I shall share every idea and listen to every returning one. To wit, one should never judge whether a person is or is not a team player just by his interactions with a single other person; one must investigate further, look into the ideas that traverse between the two persons and watch how they coalesce.

A frivolous lament

I miss her of course; not her maybe, but her presence – what foolishness, how could ‘her’ refer to anything but her presence. Let’s not get tangled in the semantics. I miss her. She was the only one in the office who could make me happy, who could get me motivated to want to go back after a most relaxing weekend. Every now and then, I would peer over my shoulders at her place and would see just the tip of her head above the monitor screen; probably buried in work my dear. Before leaving, she would always go out to smoke a cigarette – not that it would have deterred my affection for her in any way. Then at six forty-five sharp, she would look across and I would look back, and we would both leave together, furtively, so that no one else could discover our little secret world. We’d even walk pass each other without turning a glance. We did this because we knew with confidence that as soon as we were alone, everything would erupt in splendid colours.