On that day, like many other days, I’ve written a fine article of childish humour where I looked back on one of the unforgettable days I have spent in the greatest city in the world: New York City.
But on that very same day, I wrote something else, usually the type of writing I keep to my notebooks instead of here. I am often asked “how can you come up with such posts?”, though usually referring to the more insane Moogle, but a feasible general question nonetheless.
Difficult to answer through explanation, I will allow myself this time to share what else I wrote on that day that I kept to myself, and you can form your own links to what’s below and what I posted here on that day.
Dust covered my book of memories. This very book that is a testament to my existence. Covered in dust, neglected for months and years on end.
My handwriting gets poorer with every passing day. My English is but a former shadow of itself.
Here I sit at 10:03 PM in my new apartment. A one bedroom apartment that I would have only previously dreamt of living in and probably avoided those who did. Street and house lights shimmer in the distance; people stroll the streets below and others ride their expensive cars.
Life goes on.
But it changed a lot, it moulded different personalities into different people and even myself. I do not know who anyone is anymore. And to a larger extent, I do not distinctly recall who I am anymore.
But my fingers firmly press against the pen, aching my wrist, only affirming to me that some habits don’t die. Or, probably, that I am still, as always have been, tense. Perhas even sad, or angry. A combination, for sure. One emotion cannot control all five fingers.
My handwriting is aweful.
And I hate myself for caring as much as to note it. Why would I care if my handwriting, in this very book at least, mattered? Who is to read it, and if there is one, reading these very pages, what would he or she think, that, here I am, discussing my handwriting?
Or perhaps, rather, it is not the matter of handwriting itself, but the cultural attention and effort that is put into making all letters flawless, comprehensible, but, as all concentrated efforts poured into perfection go, is nothing but a ludicrous task that only makes this very script wors than it actually is.
And what of all the uniformly black colour? And odd page or so in blue, written in a state of urgency, or, perhaps, neglect. Where do I go with all this rambling.
I sit here, fragile, hungry, thin, alone, lonely. These appearances and states only clouded my vision. My strive to own, possess, and execute everything perfect had only made me hollow to the fact that beauty lies in the imperfections of things.
I forgot what I love. I can only focus on what I hate and don’t like. When I am confronted with something I love, it appears novel, and brilliant, so much that I grab on to it so hard, I often lose it.
I cannot loosen my grip on the pen. I only momentarily wake up to my hurt hand’s calls. No sonner than I acknowledge the euphoric relief of my muscles that they are stressed again with my subconscious vehemence.
I lied. I stole. I said the truth. But all was not worth this. Perhaps a little. I cannot be certain. All blessings are curses and vice versa. Humans do nothing but come up with convoluted explanations to every problem. Others blame God. I don’t know who to blame but myself. Blaming adds nothing worth any value.
A turned page with absorbed ink and oil. I look ghastly in my reflection on the window. A pathetic, hunchbacked, slim indivudal, with success that is not shared with anyone nor attributed to any virtue present in the self. Goodwill, good fortune and God are all active roles in my success. My success is only realized when I see how I failed in so many other things. Things that were worthwhile.
Things that were me.
My fingers grow weary.
And I don’t like this black pen anymore.