Wow I'm still running on another late night, a rumbling tummy and a sliver of inspiration, I write.
Remembering how E-von (yes I'm going to have to do without the Jiejie, at least here. Especially when you know, her age isn't too far away from mine.. just a decade shy) asked me if I wrote stories and poetry, I said no. Well as for poetry and fantasy writing, I can't write something that isn't real to me and especially not something that you never knew could be bound by so many rules.
Well, not anymore. Maybe I could when I was little, but not now. Probably never in the future.
Maybe after being a lit student, with a lack of confidence, I know poems, haikus (gosh I don't understand the beauty of those) and the like could never materialise in ink. I hate feeling like an amateur in this case, like how I never showed anyone else what I wrote,
after Mrs Aidil nearly read my compo to the sec 4 class. Then, you'll never see 'Peace' again, cuz it'd probably be in the Tuas landfill by now.
At least hardly anyone got to read it.
Then again, is what I wrote worth being in the rubbish heap with yesterday's apple cores and last year's soured milk? Unfortunately, the
A she gave me is also there. Kinda sorry about that now. Not like I'm showing off or anything, cuz I'm not really in the mood for that right now. Yes I now show you I'm shameless like that, hehs.
Reminds me oh how I used to keep diaries and then tear out the pages from dissatisfaction. The rest of the pages would be used as scrap paper for Math. Boy did I use a lot of those.
Again I question myself, I've been in internal conflict about this for a long time.
Am I ashamed of what I wrote?
Maybe not. I don't blame a celebrity who's gone bananas and thinks all belongs to the King himself, and by that I mean the biggest boss (and gut) of rock n roll. Kinda like a different mirror of virtual reality I might say.
Is there anything really wrong with that?
To play with the different perspectives of the lunatic, the doctors and the lawyer was my main purpose, and man it makes me so proud to think I would've thought of that. I guess I threw it away during the time I cleaned up my sec sch things because I was afraid of exposing the flaws in the composition, which would amount to the flaws in my delivery and ultimately my mind.
I spent 3 hours writing that. Well Shakira did say giving birth is not without delivery pains. I spent 30 minutes on edge as Mrs Aidil scrutinised what appears to be a doctor's handwriting on my compo, and you had no idea how I was scared shitless. I took only 3 minutes to decide that it should go with my Math homework, into the rubbish.
Now I know why I frequently have nightmares of being publicly naked (especially last year) and running away, hiding behind every imaginary pillar.
Apparently, that's the sign of being afraid of people knowing your weaknesses and a sleepytime manifestation of escapism.
Oh Mdm Priya, it didn't just happen in drama, it happened in my sleep too.
I guess it's got more to do than shyness and being a perfectionist.
I believe in artistic therapy more than ever. It is true that what you draw, write, play might reflect your emotional state of mind and becomes a peep-hole to the vast reaches of the lock-under-chain mind.
Now I shall reconstruct my essay:
PeaceLawyer with a latino last name goes into a hospital. The walls outside are grey concrete. The air inside is ... clinical and the corridor foreboding. By the vending machine, he adjusts his tie and makes sure he looks as professional as possible. He's in his business suit and polished shoes.
He is taken to his client where they are supposed to discuss his will. Mr. Celebalooney (not his real name, I couldn't remember what I named him) was to name the successors to his estates and royalties. As he enters the ward, Mr C. is having an episode (and he's singing an offpitched 'Hound Dog') and all the doctors and nurses are trying to restrain him. Mr C. appears to calm down and return to his senses when he sees his lawyer. Doctors and nurses are relieved.
Lawyer begins discussion with a dishevelled Mr C.. For a while he seems to understand, and reassures him that he's okay, then he starts to enlighten his lawyer. He insists he doesn't have any children and all his money should be given to Elvis whose address was the North Pole. Lawyer tries to reason with him but thinks he's really lost it and the paperwork has to be postponed.
Mr C. starts losing it again. Outside, the paparazzi a la Britney Spears' case is gathering outside and causing chaos.
Lawyer contemplates the situation and ponders the question of reality and society.
When he's done, he sees nurses dragging him to the solitary confinement room. Mr C. sings a different Elvis tune.
Lawyer is convinced that Mr C. is at peace in his disorganised mind and away from the world.
He straightens his suit and heads to door, seeing the world differently from when he came in.
When I write essays, they usually start with real life questions and situations as inspiration, then grow into a readable story, with the fictional characters and happenings mirroring or parodying non-fiction elements.
I suppose, with all that stress and all, I was beginning to question what was real. People telling me that this and that is real, how would I know if they didn't seem real to me anymore?
Sometimes I felt like Mr C.. Who knows I might be better off living in my own world, though it had consequences, especially stemming from isolation.
I might be as judgemental and cruel as the paparazzi, because reality was not for the individual to decide, but the masses. Oh my, what would brainwashing do.
Most of the time I felt the answers were always hanging in the balance. We'd never know, but do we have to pick a side? Now that's the lawyer's opinion. Common sense isn't exactly Sherlock Holmes beyond the superficial.
Nevertheless, eventually I settled for a good-enough answer, then with God, the best answer anyone could give me.
Through writing and re-writing, I learnt what Cambridge might've been really pissed with, but maybe our trails, like careless footsteps cemented in wet cement, can't keep the cat in the bag.
Artists and creative geniuses (think Van Gogh) were always plagued by stigma and overwhelming emotions that were felt more than two-fold of the not-as-sensitive majority.
Like people who don't know how to play any musical instruments, when musicians speak at length about musical elements that make up their music or compositions, you know when you dont understand, you're left out. Hence, they're in a world that is incomprehensible and unreachable to those who do not have the skeleton key. Same goes to artists or people who've gone off the rocker.
While the majority writes them off as basketcases who are too over-emotional, I guess, I'm taking a stand for them.
For even when I'm generally at peace, there will still be some to insist I am just about as unstable as a house of cards.
Layers and interpretations, that's the good thing about being a lit student. Eventually, you'll see how in a lot of writings, there's more than meets the eye and less than we'll ever uncover.
Just as some of us choose to believe that Elvis is very much alive today, who says he doesn't still live on in our music and in our hearts?
