Life is what happens when I play the ukulele.
The rest—wasting precious ticking hours inside a crowded bus, dreaming stupidly about love, feigning productivity in front of a computer screen—is just some cheap fake I got lots and lots of.
Let me tell you what’s going on: I feel like I don’t exist. It’s not like I cannot feel my hands or see myself or anything like that, but there’s this notion that I’ve faded from my surroundings, namely from those who have surrounded me at any given point. I’m frantically looking for myself in other people’s memories, to no avail. It’s like I’m Stalin’s former best friend in a world where everyone’s Stalin.
I’ve been trying hard to convince myself that this feeling is entirely unfounded, but it’s hard to reconcile these two sides of my brain. The good side tells me that someday there will be someone who will not give up so easily on me, that there are people who actually listen to me and think of me from time to time. The bad side says “not true,” people talk to me when they’re bored, that’s all. Maybe I’ve got nothing substantial to offer. Maybe I’m fun like those little games you play when there’s nothing better to do, but of course, nobody’s ever heard of a memorable game of solitaire. Once again, there is nothing that proves this assertion, but the feeling’s there and it’s getting more and more difficult to ignore. It’s become a huge boulder with an engraving that says “YOU HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN.”
Now, what can I do about this? I have no idea. Writing is a good way to attest to my existence, I think, but maybe it’s not like I want to do something in order to remain in the future as much as I want to know that I do remain somewhere other than my mirror at this moment. As for now, I’d love to find a way for me not to be on the verge of tears all the time. Okay, I’m off to the shrink.
I like writing poetry. It poses a nice challenge: it’s like you’re dreaming awake, somebody notices, asks you “what do you see?” and you have to tell them what you’re dreaming about in such a way that they can see it too. You share the landscape in your mind like you would a snow globe (minus the snow, most of the time). When I’m writing, I’m not really looking for a certain structure as much I am trying to focus and make some sense out of these watery visions. Words are like lenses that help me see things inside me in detail. Thus, when I look for words, I’m actually looking for polished glass. I’m looking for pieces that not only allow me to see better but also sound good when they tinkle or shatter. Besides, this process helps me get rid of that forlorn feeling that I so often get. Poetry drains rotten love out and leaves my heart as good as new.
to wait in vain
to wait for nothing
to be the dream
at the break of dawn
the road that leads
into lost knee-high grass
a warm cake in
an abandoned house
to miss the end
of the conversation
and smile
expecting
a fast reply
to be tomorrow
when there’s no future
a debt
a promise
a queue
a god