Draft

23 December 2009

Dear,

Sitting by the library window, I wonder if writing can really keep me in touch with my feelings. How does the act of writing cross over from being a source of affliction to being a form of exorcism which is still not exactly a happy ending? This limited piece of writing skimmed over my mind, and only half-succeeds in presenting the surface residue. Feelings can be so hard to bear with, and it is a constant struggle to stumble from one day to the next. Sometimes I think there must be absolutely nothing in me that is basic or strong enough to carry on and an internal suicide occurs, episode after episode - something in me shuts down heavily.

Yesterday I was here too, and it was pouring through the clear glass pane. The panicking mynahs were swooping around in wild circles, trapped in a flurry of madness and not seeing the infinity of the sky that wraps them. It was frustratingly beautiful to watch, so much that I just had to take my eyes, and myself away from this window scene. So that I would not be possessed by a clutching fervor to break my head against the glass.

I had a thought: encircle the heart, never let it break. The heart should be circle-shaped, it will then keep running and never lose its tail. Somewhere along the way I must have forgotten how to write and how to love properly, with fears, without metaphors. Was it because of what you said -smiling wryly-, and in that chance I knew you would never understand my metaphors, even when they are built upon you and your hopelessly careless brick-foundation. Chips, knocks and scratches only add to the attraction.

Sinking amidst reports that are necessary due, to seek more urgent funding, writing has now become or had long became a necessary self-denial- a cooking up of a storm and punchy phrases for a meal that I myself have never attended. I am polishing utensils nervously and biting half-moon fingernails, having to think that my dishes will become convincingly real once I specify the right ingredients. Of believing that it is real when it is not yet real, so that it can then become real.

My dreams dissolve with this stirring of rain, the crashing flight of delirious mynahs, strictly heart-shaped hearts, __________________. Please stop tearing and start living. Is loneliness a feeling you get from other people? Is this thought already a sign of weakness? Even that assumes that loneliness is weakness, but who sets it that way?

Wake up, chin up.