photo courtesy of ourladyofweightloss.com
Here is the first of a couple of entries from my previous blog. Feel free to comment.
Blank pages scare me, and they keep on calling my name. They look like babies wanting to be carried, cigarettes to be smoked, and condoms to be used. The idea of writing something, or anything for that matter is a daunting task. I don't have a cybernetic body to turn off my skin sensors when people look at me with disgust and condescension. Why am I gripped with obsession to writing when I can just say what I want? Maybe because writing is a perfect example of nostalgia. With words spoken, it will be gone with the wind, erased and electrocuted by the neurons inside your brain. It can be deleted from your memory, drowned with the other made-up memories of what you wanted in the past, to establish a murky present and fly-off to a future of more lies.
People suffer from nostalgia, like dogs battling with surrealism. We tend to cling to written words , like our addiction to telenovelas and kitschy films that have subliminally stole your hard earned money and duped you into thinking that you'll feel good when in reality it's the superb air-conditioning of the movie houses that puts you in a trance-like state.
I once was obsessed with this person who once gave an aura of inner danger. I used to name him the great masturbator. The great masturbator has a devastating passive-aggressiveness. Once, when we were alone, the silence was so heavy I thought I heard the rats farting and the moans of the cockroaches having sex. In that Saturday evening when the rays of the moon fell on his tightly woven mass of curly hair, I felt the menace. The first evil. It was like I was in a state of perpetual tension, mute reproaches, and noiseless hatred. I know that he is capable of feeling hate, abomination towards me as he is also able to masturbate and reach the the seventh mountain of orgasm with only the power of his sick and hateful mind. I loved him for that. I used to daydream that he would barge through the door, soaked in blood, wielding an ax on one hand, and the other hand chopped off. He likes those things. He calls it living and holding the power of destruction in the palm of his hand and I call it frustration overload and hanging around too much in cyberspace looking for Motoko Kusanagi and trying to contract stand alone complex. I saw him in my mind professing his undying hate for me, taking him in my arms, tears falling from my face while trying to stifle a laughter. My hands would glow and in typical TV show fashion, the power of my maniacal obsession, healed the great masturbator. He sits, we're both perplexed and just when it's time for me to end my reverie, I had an epiphany. This isn't what I want, I grab the ax from his hand and with one great swoop, chopped his head off.
I'm really a sucker for happy endings
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