Things are a-changing. No more blog updates, there must be something certainly wrong you believe. Has she stopped writing? Yes and no. Has something happened? Yes and no. Are these questions pointless and irrelevant? Let's see.
I have encountered the slow slice of flesh of my fingers when I suffered papercuts, and the inching grappling pain in the muscle of my jaw as I sat in front of my window settled in too fast that I got headaches trying to think. I tried to write an original, a never-been-done-before but often found myself pilfering from novels I had read and snatching little frames of Woody Allen and Wes Anderson and tried to get Pinter to sound like a terribly dubbed Chekov play. That shit, you can not pull off as your own.
Music doesn't play in my life now, it hath taken a backseat with the dogged down dreams that were once idea-factory catalyst converters; they made sentences into richly embellished stories and made me a great storyteller when I needed something to flow and fly. But in a much deeper scarring turn in events, concoctions made up of melody and mental images of something that appeared real but in reality impossible had made me turn dark and stoic and incapable of seeing straight at people, but rather straight through people. That shit had made me a surly motherfecker, and now it's gone cold turkey on ME. I need my fix, man.
It has been possibly the hardest months of my life - the months of when I return to university seem to whittling down with time passing, thankfully. Although I sit at home and do almost nothing, everything seems so difficult. Waking up is a dreadful chore, knowing there is unfinished tasks that need to be done around the house. I've lost at the game called Job Hunting far too many times, that I've lost count and my mother has given up on getting me out of the here as she has seen how much she can use me around the housework.
My bullet train trail of thought has been clouded and chowed down by the thick fattened smog that hazes the brain with sleep and everything seems to go slow-mo. It's the sensation equivalent to watching a large wobbly chinned child dribbling and knitting his eyebrows furiously whilst struggling to get down a sour chew sweet.
Sentences don't end with a full stop when this happens, this slo-mo-fo. They end with a robin ellipsis, and things go from technicolour to a streaky wet black and white. I lose all track of what I set out to achieve and things go flying off from the whip roll of the yellow rubber brick road.
Work experience hadn't even been given a tryout in these precious months that would shape my career after university. It's as if I'm chopping off my own leg. Chop chop chopping, through the failed waste that is my flesh blood and bone.
But now I'm seeing light and I see inspiration in the next coming month; Ramadhan. Those washed away colours come seeping into vision in a pastel faded wash over - it's bleak but it's brightening up as I tap that power into the thunderous thumps I give the keys of my keyboard.
This will be my Resurrection from the flaky bone-idle student I am. I will shed and peel off this dark coat that bears me with this air of sadism and bodes me a reckless manner, and regenerate a sunny skin made from the eloquent glow of prayer and control - what I don't eat in meal form, I will be fed words to the mind and spirit to my soul. Words that relay peace and tranquil, but without the isolated bubble.
Is this a crazy talk ranty kind-of blog? You decide, I'm outta here - trolla-la-la!
