Incoherent

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Two sides of my brain farted; you’re reading the result. Or so I claim.

I want to write a story about words, but words sometimes write their own stories. The harder I try to search for the best synonym, the more I struggle to remain faithful in my theme.

I want to write. And write something relevant.

Everyone wants to talk about what’s hot or what’s new or popular. But I choose to believe otherwise. Just when you thought there’s something hot to talk about, imagination is always hotter.

I miss reading. I miss myself. In the context of this discourse, I would like to claim that I am myself whenever I read, reflect, chew or spit, digest or puke whatever I am willing to take in.

Now I am left in this room, UV rays from the computer hitting my eyes straight, and I somehow feel that this piece of crap I am trying to harmonize manifests not my mirror but a roulette spinning madly around my head.

The faster the spin, the better.

I watch the colors of each roulette pie mix into a shade of burgundy. I look closer and see that my eyes are sanpaku. Split second and it is gone. I am alone with myself thinking whether a dose of fantasy is good for one’s health.

I have a lot of dreams. To become a writer, a fashion designer, a basketball coach, a teacher, a mother, (did I just say that?), a film director. And it hurts to think that I can be no one because I am just a dream.

Believing is a talent; trusting is a skill. Or so I again claim.

I want to humble myself because whenever I feel respectable I see my sins in people, places and events, and I would therefore conclude that no one is as godly as Him. I urge others to do the same.

Sometimes I wish of a different life. And so the “what-if’s” eat out the “what-now’s.”

I watched TV, waited for the drama and was not satisfied. I checked the credits and aspired to be the director of the show. That should be this, this should be that. Little did I know that I was painting my own portrait.

I beg for a break but whenever peace hums in, a bigger trouble waits aside. Perhaps my best friend was right: it is better to be a pessimist who readies himself for the worst scenario than become the complacent optimist. Life offers many pop quizzes, and I have failed enough.

They used to say I am crazy. Now, I am proud of it.

(Coherence, where are you?)

This should be a goodnight speech. Well, it is.

Goodnight, everyone.