Maia Nebula!

“… 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…

It is possible to hate the world and your own life when Aristotle wants your head.

Sensei: Laura San, dare ni chokoreto wo agemasuka? (Laura San, who do you give chocolates to?)

Laura: Uh… tomodachi ni? (Uh… to my friends?)

Sensei: Sensei ni! (To the teacher!) … whoa, whoa, whoa! wait a minute, to him!?

A few seconds later —after I blushed and leafed through the textbook to see if I had skipped something I had to read, and choked in exclamations of “dokode!?” and “nani!?”—, he gave us an explanation on Valentines Day in Japan, when girls give chocolates to boys and even to their (male) teacher. This explanation didn’t stop me from wondering why he had chosen me to say such a thing.