I keep writing to the same old song. I mean that quite literally, I cannot write unless I am listening to the same man crooning at the mic; it especially helps when the weather is cold and I am as usual, alone. Loneliness might be at play too. I can’t write happy things anymore. As an aspiring writer I should be able to pen-down anything, right? I can always say it’s just my style to attempt at a black and white version of my own melancholy but how long will I make the same excuses for myself? Somedays I think of abandoning words altogether. It would be freeing to not be labelled as a faux writer anymore, especially by myself, but the lure is too much. In an almost comical series of events, I eventually find myself too restless to do anything but scribble upon papers. Well, that’s not strictly the truth.
In this modern age of electronics, I barely hold a pen to a paper anymore, although I’m not shy of investing in countless pens. The keys feel so familiar to me, almost like home and wouldn’t that be a joke on me. I’ve always searched for home in people and places, in murky traffic, and a café I hope is always quiet when I visit. I have spent hours upon hours contemplating if it home is the grass that I’ve laid on, watering it with tears I thought would never end, or in the arms of several people, most of whom have left. Perhaps, all this while, I have been carrying my home like a burden; a machine that holds most of my secrets and stories. It would make sense if my concept of home remains fluid, but in all of this uncertainty, is it so wrong of me to look for something that has never stayed?
The keys glow in the dark. Maybe I should take that as a sign, or maybe it’s just another useful piece of technology I’m blowing too out of context by attaching sentimental value to it. I suppose that’s what I do about everything. You allow something to hold sentimental importance to you once and sooner or later it will get taken away from you. That or other people will ensure that they ruin things for you. My fears hold true for me, but I can’t speak for anyone else.
There are times, early in the morning when I can almost feel the sun rise. I have either yet to sleep, or have just woken up, eyes barely opened, not really trying to makes sense of my surrounding, some part of me trying to suppress my own awakening. Alas, once my eyes open, it takes time to get them to close again.
As I feel the sun emerge, I wonder if I will ever do the same? If I will rise above the horizon from behind the clouds which have kept me from who I am?