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Wednesday, 2 November 2016


Image source: bluemoonstudios.com
I gathered motivation, picked up a notebook and pen and was ready to write a beautiful story. The story existed in a ghostly and patchy form within the mind. A lot of neat construction had to be put in to unleash its captivating ability. “Start something, the rest will form and link up in the process.” That was my mind. I picked up the notebook and pen, getting ready to break out of inertia and flow.
It had been weeks I put down pen on paper for this purpose. There was no logical explanation to why the switch flipped down but the situation made me unhappy, knowing I have disappointed myself and the circle of audience. Holding the pen now felt a bit new, the page of the note starring back demandingly. Would “It was a cold Sunday evening...”make a good opener for the story? I contemplated the first word to put down. Writing with pen and paper was usually faster and more bonding for me than sitting over a PC to type a fresh idea, knowing video games could replace any moment of boredom.   I put down the first word. It felt odd. I crossed it off.

The neurons and cells in the brain were working harder, trying to construct an ideal opener. Then, unfortunately, the mind had its way and started to wander. I noticed some leaves of the note were dog-eared. I straightened them out one by one. My eyes dropped to the pen in my hand, it was sky blue and labeled Avanti. It also occurred to me there was an overgrown cuticle on my right index finger. Carefully, I placed the extended tiny strip between my incisors and bit it off, avoiding injury. Mission accomplished. There was a ceramic cup on my table containing pens, pencils and markers. The handle would look better if it faced left, I thought. I repositioned the cup and it was satisfying. The notebook was still blank. I spotted my small toy “high performance” convertible on the table. I picked it up and spun the wheels just for the pleasure of watching it spin. I then placed it on the open book and drifted around like Vin Diesel. I placed it back in front of the cup. Why was my table unorganized? Maybe, that was the cause of my distraction. I placed books and papers properly and leaned back on the seat. Table in order, now write.

Innocently, my gaze wandered to the most avoided object on the table: the mirror. I stared at my early morning reflection; the speck in my eyes, the blackness and dryness of my lips and my dreamy eyes. My lips usually had a touch of pink but they looked as black and thick as that of a Jamaican marijuana smoker.  I licked them so hard the pressure made colour return to it. My hair was not much grown, just curly and uncombed.  I could stay a week before paying the barber a visit. The neck of my white t-shirt had sagged, enough to reveal a pair of deep, skin-covered collar bones. Maybe it was a symbol of masculinity...or malnourishment. But I fed well. I guess genes were just being genes.
A ridiculous suspicion sneaked into my mind. What if mirrors lied? What if what we saw was not what was? What if my ears and nose weren’t actually this big? I counter-argued myself too. The last time I saw my reflection together with someone’s, the person’s reflection looked exactly like the person so my spark of discovery quenched, robbing my chance of being a hero or a genius.
With some effort, I looked away from the glass of distraction. The notebook was still blank, the Avanti pen still waiting to be used. I propped my chin with my left palm and rested my elbow on the table, channeling my attention to the note before me, ready to focus on the main mission. Like gentle smoke, something worse than wandering gaze crept in; stray thoughts—in form of memories. I reminiscing a bone friend I lost few months ago. I was remembering his face, his talking energy, his humors, his encouragements and visions; I was remembering his last days on the sick bed too. It wasn’t the first or the second time of such. It stung. It hurt. I shook it off and resurrected to the present. The reality of dawn being swallowed by faint sunlight was setting in. I lost the tranquility of the dim morning hours. Other activities had to be attended to. The page was still blank. There was no story, or rather, there was no inspiration. Closing the note, I rose to start my day. Some things could not be compelled, they had minds of theirs. However, this is still a story—the story of my unwritten story.

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