Brain Dead

I'm feeling really knackered. I had some sleep for many two or three hours since coming home. I woke up about midnight wide awake yet surprisingly not hungry. Did the two pork buns and the chicken nuggets fill me so much that dinner was skipped? Still, there is the exhaustion from the day's labour which sometimes does not amount to much. Have you had that feeling of having done a lot in the day but in the end there didn't seem much accomplished, like the day has been a complete waste, making you wonder: «Why bother? Yeah, why bother working?» Many times I have wondered, just the Ecclesiastes who rambled about «Vanity of vanities, everything is vanity», about there being nothing new under the sun, all seeming to be tedious and pedestrian. Many times I have asked myself: what is the point of it all? And in the end, the manager says: «We haven't really been doing much. » Yes, after working your butt out for weeks on end, stressing yourself to death, sending your brain to throbbings and pain and stanchless buzzings. There is no end, no respite. Even now as I write these mundane words creeping up my sorry consciousness, the sense of helplessness mingled with unbridled anxiety and strain tax my drooping spirit. Dejected, listless murmurings flow. They flow but without passion. Passion is a luxury in the last few weeks. Yet I seek it. Even in these words. They are elusive as inspiration for poetasters reading comic books. I'm not even sure that makes sense but that will do for now.

What with the constant bombardment of minuses on the flagging sensibilities. Minuses being the negativities, the minus signs imposing on your weeping conscious and your suicidal subconscious, virulently trouncing your crestfallen ego. I visited the A. Library and seeked out counsel and found it in an aged and graceful Celia, who listened, for I wanted to talk and be listened to and hear some words of understanding, maybe compassion. I did get what I wanted; I wish I can say the same thing for the other things I wanted. A listening ear is something we need. Trouble comes to any relationship (whether between husband and wife, parent and child, etc.) when one party stops to listen and pay attention. There are signs everywhere and sometimes we miss the signs which ofttimes can be glaring, staring you in the face, even with dagger eyes. Yet still we miss, or maybe we ignore them, hoping and trusting that the passing of time will somehow efface them, bringing positive or neutral outcomes.

I don’t know how long it takes me to write a thousand words, but that is my goal. I may be talking senselessly, slummocking, groping for words devoid of grace or flair, but this is my edict to myself – to write, accepting the fact that I cannot learn to write except by actual writing, putting words into paper or to an electronic medium. I have made many promises to myself and I really am the only one to break them. Discipline and commitment are wanting. How do I make this overstressed mind stick adamantly to some rigid discipline and unwavering commitment? That starts now and time will be my only judge and prosecutor.

The morning will bring a promise of more labour needing to be done, despite the languor. Ich habe keine Lust mehr darauf. But the idiot show must go on, not to please myself or the manager but to bring home the bacon, even if the bacon itself seems to be not enough. Well, it is never enough. Money talks: it always says goodbye. The future is dark and gloomy. I am trying to pierce through the veil of the perceived future, and all I see is murk. But there are intimations of flickering light and they are enough for now. At least there is some flickering hope in the midst of the inky, wintry visage I now front. Without the flicker, there is no sense to prolong life. I really shouldn’t be saying that but that is what I honestly feel. It’s a wrong thing to say, a wrong thought to harbour. Flickering light, burn brighter and explode into dazzling light and fireworks. Let me celebrate life before I celebrate death, my final healing, my respite from all my anger, disappointment, and desperation.

It is about three hours before daylight breaks. My fingers are not numb but my eyelids are starting to droop heavily. A certain thirst beckons me to fetch something to quench it. But that can wait. These words cannot wait. Like the news items that will grace today’s papers, the words cannot wait for they must fill the blank pages, for the words will breathe life into the blank pages, even if they sometimes talk about death, killings, wars, muggings, racist violence. They breathe life into the dead emptiness of blank pages, like they breathe life now into this page penned in unease and boredom.

Thoughts about supplementing my income. That will be necessary I believe. I have to put some effort into doing that. But doing what? That is a question, tedious it may be. What else really can I do? I have probably been contemplating this question for over two years now and nothing concrete has ever come out of it. Assistant cook perhaps: chopping onions and carrots, slicing vegetables, meat, etc. Doable, feasible albeit not magnificent. Labour is in the kitchen, away from inquisitive eyes. «What’s he doing here, moonlighting? Not enough money to go around, eh?» Well, that’s true. But I don’t need the humiliation from busybodies’ wisecracking observations. Ma vie, elle est a moi and if that’s what I have to do to put a decent roof over my head and feed my ravenous face, then so be it. God himself will bless that. I don’t really need gratuitous comments.

Some flicker, give me some flicker, oh yeah, let it dazzle and burn.

Sweete Themmes runne softly till I end my Song.

14 December 2005