roughly a year ago, i wrote an entry with a title, “weight for me.” i wrote it for a very nice person who was meant to leave my sphere.
now i’m back on ground zero, and i am still uttering that damn phrase like a somnabulist. for once, i am writing directly on my wordpress account. yes, i am not writing it on a digital notepad as one would write a draft. i am writing this head-on.
i like freefalls. i like letting go. of things. of people. of events. i have been on a swimming frenzy, and i find myself getting tempted to go deeper and rest at the bottom. i was at a hotel last week, and i was avoiding the terrace. why? because i got tempted twice to climb the ledge and dive head-on. it’s not only the outcome that is bewitching; the feel of the wind on my face, loose limbs fluttering, eyes staring ahead—these are the tokens one gets during freefalls.
i haven’t written poetry for the past months. i am a sham, a shame. that should be my mantra. my muse has left me, i left her. it’s a common feeling. to quote one phrase from one of my aging poems, i am “even afraid of holding the bread knife.”
i was at the dentist awhile ago, and it was exhilarating. i was basking in the crunch of metal on my teeth, the sour taste of bile and blood, the tightening screws, the airconditioning causing my back to ache. i was living the moment, my own fight club, my own taste of what pain is and should be.
last week, my friend’s dad decided to rest in final peace. and when i heard the news, i cried in the middle of a planning seminar. i thought, “what’s the use? a huge portion of my friend’s soul perished. what’s the use?” death was all around me last week. a vase of flowers sat mute on a table. wishing feathers greeted me yesterday. a dream of my dead stepmother smothered me. i am reminded of haruki murakami’s sputnik sweetheart. how i wish i could just go with her and vanish. but then, this much is true: “it meant i love. it meant we love. what a life. what a beautiful twisted life.”