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i was out in the yard, about to take my brothers' uniforms from the sampayan when the sky had my head tilting upwards. (of course. there's nowhere to look but up. i love the sky so much; my navel must've hooked itself up there.) i saw the moon sandwiched between two gauzes of clouds that were gently pushed eastward by god's fingers. about ten seconds of mentally shooting that solemn movement. it was so far out. preceding paragraph could be integrated to a chapter of a novel - although not verbatim - a snippet somewhat, if someone would have to morph me to a one-dimensional, word-structured figure. i just want to be a protagonist in a story - an astrid magnussen, a dolores price, a sayuri, a modern day jane eyre. someone else is ripping my soul, pasting it to fresh writeable pulp, dripping it with ink, making me literature-alive. not that i'm worthy of a page. i look at myself and who am i? i'm twenty, not particularly ravishing, 4'11 insisting on a 5'. i tutor an angelic korean and i transform to a multiplication monster and division dinosaur whom she magically kills with each correct mathematical operation. i have almost died from basti's in-the-flesh gorgeousness. i herald garfield as my hero, my favorite philosopher. i've had love stories to look back to, one is underway and i pray to my god that this time there'd be no sad, weepy endings. i almost drowned twice. i had a teacher who hated me for losing the editorial writing competition. i slaved away for a certain ryann back in highschool - fatal, insipid attraction. i shielded myself and my bestfriend with my yellow umbrella when we almost got hit by up toki jeep. i almost poisoned my bestfriend's father because i placed the nitric acid on a bottle of mineral water. i was an ugly balloon when i was fourteen. but other than that, what is there to say? who will quantify me on paper? why can't i shape myself to someone epic and beautiful and with glorious hair? sometimes there's just that flighty need of someone containing us as words as intoxicating as the cana wine that would flow restlessly, liquefy the solid tableaux in our daily drama. someone to chronicle our life and twist it to a grand story. someone to transform us to paper heroines. i just don't know how they do it. writers who could make a character so incredible, so enviable. who are their life-size models? aren't their characters themselves? the other day, on my way to antipolo, i thought of nothing else but a character sketch of someone named poinsettia, a supposedly amazing being for a christmas story. i thought of her crisp soliloquy, imagined her as someone whose eyes droop down like sad breasts. i couldn't see her lifeless, couldn't see her faceless. i wanted to subtly inject myself to her, a little part of me jammed in her unbelievably thin body. if i want to be a protagonist, and if no one else could see my life as a saga and a triumph, i could at least play around with an imaginary being, then make her me. weh. told you, i am so not making sense. point is...i just want to write, goddunit. Post a comment in response: |
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