Maia Nebula!

Do you remember how I waved when I saw you coming out of the gate in the airport? Have you any idea of how insecure I felt then? Well, let me tell you about it. We hugged, and I’m sure you remember, because a policeman scolded us for leaving your luggage unattended. However, by then I felt we were old friends, and I was very scared about that. What if your heart had been emptied from the sparks that had always moved it toward me, and therefore I had to remove the sparks that moved me to you and smile at you as friends do? What if distance and time had corroded the bond between us?

We talked. We were still friends. We laughed. We took a cab. I sat beside you, and the moment that followed our sitting there became —believe me— one of the most decisive and beautiful memories in my life. I took a chance, a risk, I played my wildcard… and I sent my hand to fetch yours. I don’t know what I was thiking then, maybe I was too frightened by the possibility of a negative outcome. But when your hand held mine so firmly, and when they touched each other so… so full of yearning, as if there could never be a better place for them to be than right there on our laps, dancing and kissing in a way we knew we could not… then I knew nothing had changed, and happiness could still reside in my heart, fueled by yours.

My hand is longing for yours again. When will it be back?

“Now Psyche would have slept for ever, had not Eros, now recovered from his sickness, come to her and awakened her, which was bound to happen. For there is no place for Love to dwell except in the Soul, who animates all things, and there is no meaning for the Soul to live and be awake except for the sake of Love.”

Psyche, Greek Mythology Link

*sigh*

“… and I’ve really spent my life throughout the passageways of a castle as antique as Warwick, as exotic as Taj Mahal, and as baroque as Sans Souci. I possess everything I desire, including the love of a knight whose face I haven’t seen: he’s still looking for me… because I’m an Inconceivable Desire, I’m the Mistress of Boredom. Never before had I showed myself to the outer world, but this mysterious knight follows my light steps wherever I go. I need to see the light of the sky out there, strive for freedom, but I just find myself encaged in the palace, with no other company but him. It’s close to complete and eternal solitude, but at least it gives me the strength to continue stepping over my and his steps. This nonsensical search party will never end, it will transcend into infinity… but when time stops counting, space is meaningless, and being, nothing more than an illusion, he will find me and we will be together forever…”

Written in 1998. Recently found in a notebook from eighth grade.

I never thought a character I had created solely for poetical purposes would take over my own body. The Mistress of Boredom was just a name I had adopted when I was 14… or was it? Maybe boredom was already growing like a fetus within my brain by the time I created her. However, writing pseudo-prophetical poetry gives me the creeps… but it’s sort of liberating to find myself within my own creation. It’s as if I had finally learned who I’m supposed to be in terms of writing.

I think I’m ready to keep on walking within a path I never chose to leave.

There’s this movie about a writer with writer’s block (Billy Crystal) whose only novel was stolen by his wife. He teaches some sort of Fiction Writing class, and his pupil (Danny DeVito) is trying to write a mystery novel but he can’t. Well, there are problems and stuff, and there’s the ending, and I don’t really want to talk about it except for the fact that the writer’s got writer’s block. I’ve got writer’s block. I know what this guy’s feeling because it’s what I’m always feeling… ever since I don’t know when. My last good story generated some controversy because I kinda attacked Dubuquers and their xenophobic racist society. Now I’m here. Back here. With my nice family. Lonely. Nothing to write about. My mom always said “Write your story (about Minori and myself).” But I can’t write it if it doesn’t have an ending yet. How could it have an ending if we’re so far but we’re not hating each other? I mean, we’re far but close, our story would have an ending if, at least, we had already found a way to be together…

I don’t know what I’m writing. The pleasure of letting my fingers find the right keys and getting letters, words, sentences out of that beautiful movement is all I get from this. I have no more stories to tell, but I wish I did. Maybe I wish I did because I haven’t been able to get the image of myself as a writer out of my mind. I’m supposed to be a writer. But a writer writes, and I do anything but that. Okay, I do, but I don’t write what I’m supposed to. What am I supposed to write?

Something, anything, at least for now.

I am a writer with writer’s block whose only novel lies within a shelf. I am a writer with writer’s block who could write a thousand stories on how she waits for the love that changed her life radically. A story on how…