Mistakenly, I ride the ordinary bus.
Some details of the ride:
1. The guy who sat beside me (who had tattoo of a small dragon—ahem, lizard), just left and I’m now sitting on his seat, feeling the ephemeral imprint of his butt heat
2. Our conductor for tonight is a girl. She invited the passengers to go down at Paseo. Her androgenous announcement: “Pasyo” like Tasyo with a P
3. I think I like this experience better. No tinted windows barring the sights, sounds, speeding breeze, sometimes faint cold air from an opened entrance of a building. No tinted windows trapping recycled air. The passengers might as well breathe through each other’s noses and mouths. And then the lost sign pen I remember again, like a recurring itch.
Alfie needed me to understand that we should be extra mindful of borrowed things (congrats, mission accomplished). But he should understand what extraordinary stupor struck me. I had to let go of everything, encompassing abstract (thoughts) and concretes (his sign pen). It was fucking James Jean and I can’t believe. I. touched his hand. And I wasn’t able to mutter anything. I had to let go of my tongue too. Or maybe Alfie was just tired and a bit angry at everything that happened.
It’s official: I overthink.
4. Another ordinary fare bus observation: most of the passengers are men. Ironically the conductor is a woman. Repel the stares by employing the unreadable nano handwriting. I bet no one appreciates the beauty that is writing in a small notebook.
Fragilest of thoughts.
I can’t stop writing.
I am riding Royal Star Transport. People just care about themselves. They’re too busy thinking what others think unless they enjoy a healthy deconstruction like what I did in the last page.
I missed you Pink Notebook, where the fragilest of thoughts laid down, organized, Ikebanized.
How do I waste 10 minutes?
In meaningless pastiche.
I think I forgot how to think in paper. Let me remember. Do I need a topic? A weird idea for foundation? Why haven’t I been philosophizing recently? Well, I have become too involved with reality. Visa, et al. Sir Jun leaving. Bon arriving. Movie editing. Opportunities presenting itself.
If I were asked to paint a vase of flowers, I will make it ugly-beautiful. Ugly-beautiful. Realistic. Beautiful, but ugly, but beautiful. Like a portrait of a woman, blemished, with cow licks, a bit assymetrical, but still beautiful, ugly-beautiful.
Real is ugly-beautiful.
Dance dance dance.
Repel the stares from my fragile thoughts. I realize I haven’t done this in a long time, like a month. Oh to repel the stares.
I outgrew Murakami. Fuck. Actually the only reason why I loved his works is because… it’s the first quality literature I’ve ever laid my hands upon.
Confessions: I am not imaginative. I cannot write. I find it hard to imagine new stories. I cannot draw well. I don’t think I am capable of conceptualizing award-winning ads. Logic ALWAYS overpowers. As if I am imprisoned inside the box of concrete logic. I cannot escape. Why.
This bus is too small for me. I hunched when I entered earlier.
Artists are creative because drawing allows their mind to wander freely. They just let their pencils graze their papers, while their minds graze other dimensions of this world.
This is the true reason
why the eyelidlines are taking a day off
why there are two tomatoes in place of the two eyes
why the over-worked tear ducts weren’t able to stop their toil last night even after x hours
This is not because of the extraordinary scrimping discipline needed to procure A James Jean Book in time for The James Jean Book Signing, or the impossibility of generating enough money to replace the fucking expensive power adapter
Nor is This because of the 22k amortization that has nagged painfully like an open wound, insisting the budget constraints, restricting the use of own hard-earned money
Nor is This a “work thing”, for being unable to find an escape route
This is because of the germinating self-hatred. For acting so selfishly.
For giving in to material wants. For wanting a fucking Fables Volume 1. For wanting the work pay for own consumption. For having second thoughts on helping the Mother. For not living up to The Ideal. For secretly blaming the unemployed Father why the family is in such penury.
God. What is happening.
I disappoint myself. I will go to hell, if there is one.
He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
Velutha might have recited this poem from memory. For Ammu. After they made love under the mangosteen tree for the first time. He might have altered it slightly… “Tread softly, Ammu…” He might have not. Ammu might have kissed him on the forehead upon hearing the poem. She might have not.