Several months have passed since my last post in this blog. And I have no reason for this cease save for my being a procrastinating bitch.
I can honestly say, that thought I have long started my novel, I have not made any progress whatsoever even after summer classes are over, and have been stuck at the meagre chapter 5 of my story, with the prologue still roughly written and needing polishing to fit the rest novel since it was made at an odd happenstance.
It’s not that it was written in first person when I needed it to be in third person. It’s just that it… It sounds different. The writing style of it is chopped. Fragmented. Like flashes of random images on a projector. And while this totally works since the prologue is about the protagonist’s reappearing vague dream, its voice just doesn’t fit the constant sudden oscillations of the overall oceanic influxes of the main narrative. Instead of being composed of a watery-like tone, the prologue is composed more of light, blinking. Lightning. Car lights racing off the distance. Cityscape advertisements reflected on the rough mirror of black asphalt after rain.
I know what you’re thinking. But isn’t that better? You get to show off your easily adaptable writing style. I guess so. But the thing is, I’m not all for showmanship. If I want to show off, I can just write other different pieces on the fly with a Stephen King’s voice, or Patrick Ness’s or Neil Gaiman’s. It’s easy for me to adapt writing styles, and I’m sure a couple of writers that have a similar skill can sympathize. The thing is, it just won’t sound cohesive and connected with the rest of the story, and it feels more as if it’s just an excerpt of another story and not a part of the current piece being written. And no one wants an inconsistent novel.
As for the rest of the story, why I got significantly stuck with chapter 5, it’s not because I don’t know what specific scenario I should write next, but more like how should I write the next scenario while still staying true to the overall voice of the narrative? Maybe I read too much books in this interlude that I’ve strayed from it?
Well, surprise-surprise. I haven’t been reading actually, or drawing, which used to be my vent and past time, now faintly echoing in my iced hands in a form of a phantom itch. I’ve suddenly stopped painting too, and here I thought I wanted to try acrylics next after learning watercolour. The chords of my guitar rusting from un-use and the keys of my piano dusting from inactivity.
I’ve finally graduated by the way. After my summer classes, my diploma is now available for release. And ever since she heard the news, my mother’s been pushing me to find a job but I just can’t find the determination to become a useful citizen for the country yet. I’ve been having this quiet yearning for my friends and at the same time, not wanting to see them in fear of opening my mouth to talk. And when that happens, what will I talk about? My crippling writer’s block? My novel that’s going nowhere? My unemployment and dependency burden status to the government?
I have not done anything productive for the past couple of weeks that even I’ve admitted to myself that maybe this strange numbing body paralysis is actually a result of subtle depression creeping in slowly from the dark corners, waiting for my mind to take its guard down and attack at the right moment.
I’ve been counting the things that ticks me off in my room: the wrong wall colour, the slanting ceiling, the huge cabinet mum placed in here for her stuff and her stuff only, her empty shoe boxes, my too-small desk, too-small cork board, thin wooden walls, the claustrophobic arrangement of my room. All of which elicits constant internal screaming and urge to punch and kick the low ceilings and cry from the pressure that the one place I should feel most comfort and privacy in is the most hellish uncomfortable cell I’ve never had the pleasure of sleeping and staying in.
It’s just a matter of preference, really. And no matter how much I downgrade my high-maintenance creative juice, I still find myself wishing to have never agreed living here despite the house and lot itself being quite costly. And I know I should be grateful that I have my own room while most of my peers are sharing beds with their siblings for lack of space, but really. It’s not that I’m not happy for this gift. But more like having that gift blasphemed by the giver herself as if it’s still hers when she already gave it to you for safekeeping. And in the end, you wonder why you even received such a gift when most of the time it’s not even in your hands but in the giver’s.
And I don’t’ like that. I don’t like the fact that people act like they own my stuff when they just borrowed it. Well yeah, I guess I should just be thankful that I’ve been bought such a gift, but the argument repeats itself yet again. Why give it to me when you’re the one who’ll be using it most of the time? What ‘s the point?
Many times I tried to go back to our previous home, but I have no place there any more because it’s now populated with my relatives and cousins who need it more than I do. I’d be more of a burden there than I am here in my current house.
I find myself always lost. Unrooted. Floating. Falling. My feet excitedly walk out with no destination, only to return back heavy-hearted to the cramped room that forcefully encloses my imagination.
Now that I’ve mentioned it, this room was also where my constant headache started. A dull pain in my forehead that no sleep can ever remove. In all honesty, if I didn’t have dreams and aspirations, I would’ve gladly committed suicide just to be rid of this cumbersome lifestyle.
You can tell, right? How selfish I am. Well, I am. I was always taking care of my open mind, always doing what’s best for it, unspooling every tangled thread of thought so that it won’t clutter. But now that it’s constantly being crushed by this headache for four years, I’m not surprised that I’m starting to loose my colour. My enthusiasm to continue living is fading, my determination to keep aspiring for my dreams withering ever so slightly by each day that passes. It’s getting harder to be happy when you’re not constantly getting what you want, always giving way to others in good heart, delaying gratification, further greying your existence in the process.
I don’t know. Mum said they plan to renovate the house, even asking me what I wanted for it. Being the immaterialistic child I am known, I only requested for the walls to be made concrete instead of wood, because the noise of the TV in their bedroom and my step-grandma’s are too loud. Then I asked what they want to do with the house. In between I nonchalantly ask if they plan to raise the ceiling, and she said it would cost thousands, but they can if they save enough. Just hoping it would actually come true.
I’m just really tired of them making plans and then telling me about it at the last minute, or a plan that’s been set for days now only to be cancelled by the last minute. It’s so disheartening, and it somehow affects my trust with them. How so unreliable they are. How disappointing they are.
Right now I must be blabbing nonsense just to post something. Disconnected paragraphs of thought stitched clumsily with a wrong colour of thread.
It’s just that lately, the more I put pressure on myself to finish my writing, the more I become frozen, debilitated, hesitant of continuing it. My mind became a loud radio without a dial to tune in to other stations, and it becomes louder the more I feel pressured. I just want it to stop, because I can’t sleep properly with it constantly talking to me.
I just want to rest for a while. To stop. I want to not do anything, to wake up, and stare at the ceiling for hours. To not eat when I’m hungry, to eat when I feel full. I want to sit with a good book and wear for myself the words and the worlds in paper. I want to envelop myself with the unreality of my existence. I want to distort the universe with my impurities, my curiosity, my innocence. I want them to show me the death of creation, the hurtling doom of everything’s implosion.
I want to be bathed in the singing warmth of the vacuumed nothingness, warped in the absoluteness of omnipotent illusions that illuminates the majestic mortality of my inhuman humanness.