Galloping
By: Lucio Lee
(2:60PM, FSI)
This is not going to be a story of a horse starting to understand the mysteries of life in the wild. Nor a mislead child, meeting hitches and troubles on her way to adulthood. This is going to be the story of a woman who thought it would be more fun being alone and earn on her own, in a place where she’s quite unfitted to. This is going to be the story of myself struggling with words and dreams. As always. Or not a story, but a curse. For I’m really going to pester anyone who will, unwittingly, read this just like how Sadako’s curse works in the movie The Ring – don’t even try thinking how I will connect a cursed disc here, ‘cause I won’t.
I’m writing right now ‘cause I haven’t had the chance to write something these past few months, and for anyone who also aspires to become a writer, a deprived one for that matter, just like me, I know you would understand why I’m being a little dramatic here, why I’ve been feeling suicidal last night. I was even wondering how I was able to survive the night having no letters written in should-be-my-physical-blog I named Mimi and how my mind doesn’t work for thrillers and mysteries anymore. I feel so dead. Dead inside and just waiting for the evening chills eat all the questions meddling in my head. I’ve also even forgotten now how ‘how’ ‘why’ ‘when’ ‘what’ ‘where’ function to any further extent. I’ve also been avoiding my beloved Dean Koontz for I’ve discovered a while ago, my brain can no longer apprehend his every word. Pitiful. Dreadful. Worse than those who literally cannot read and write. This is, really, really suicidal.
Maybe, if I’m going to ask a friend-cum-writer of mine, he or she, rather will say, “Oh, you’re just experiencing the famous and most alarming dilemma of a writer’s life, the ‘writer’s block’. “ And I’ll just snap ‘cause I know he/she’s totally wrong. This is not a “writer’s block”, this is worse than that. I think this should be called WBD, Writer’s Black Death. Like that scary bubonic plague that killed over 50 million of people throughout Asia and Europe in 14th century, this WBD will slowly kill all these cells inside my system and will left me crawling and begging for a miracle. I’m even feeling like going back to Bicol, I’m actually currently working in Makati, to know if what I’m experiencing right now might just be my equivalent reaction to the change of environment and rapid adjustments I’ve got to take. Well, if leaving this job will gain back my dexterity in writing and incredible interest in reading novels, if this will mean having no work at all. I guess, hearing what my heart tells me and how it erratically beats right now, I’d just go for being broke. That’s how I love writing. But. Everything still ends with but.
Remembering and looking back to what I’ve been telling to my parents, family and friends, to what I’ve promised to my sister. That I’m going to have a stable job whatever it takes. Whatever the cause will be. And I promised. I promised that I will never ever break my word. That I’ll show everyone, I’m not that dumb little girl anymore, who doesn’t even know how to write the word ‘honest’ correctly and who always slacks off and only dreamt of being a painter even though my hands hate it and how it hated me in return. I was dumb before, and I pursued to be better. Because I started to have goals. But hey, curse those goals! I’m willing to forget writing, yes, writing, just for that @#*** goals! – feel the emotions there? *smirks*
My sister, the fairest of them all, well, in my eyes, has told me that my brain likes to gallop, which affects my personality tremendously. My brain that uncontrollably changes its mood without giving warnings or telling me first if it’s already getting pissed or what. Yes. That’s how my brain works. I write not because of the urge to write. I write because my brain loves to create vision through letters. My brain uses me for its own desire. So I’ve come to love writing for I’ve also come to love my furious brain. Yet. Still now, I cannot say I’m no longer dumb. For there are really times when I’m being dummy and stupid and eventually ruins everything. Though there were also times, rare times, when me being dummy and stupid made others happy and contented with their lives.
See how the transition of thoughts destroys every beginning of every idea. Just like how my end will justify every man’s beginning. Of course, that means nothing. I’m making up all things just to make this 2nd page remarkable. Am I being remarkable here? You see, I’m not that technical-ish writer, in fact, I do not know the rules on how you connect verbs to adjectives to adverbs to nouns. I can’t even remember how my teachers back in my student days thought those – er... important rules. I’m really bad at it. My friends told me so. I’m just your typical story-teller who loves to wander in the world of fiction and mystery and who dwells within every man’s lust for things beyond reality. I’m nothing but a pseudo-monster who can’t even tell the difference between what’s true and what is lie. I create my own world out of electricity, a good-for-the-eyes-monitor, added up with a non-dusty-keyboard and an enormous good for nothing brain.
Say, negativity doesn’t always means failing; it’s only an alternative route for less expectations. The lesser my expectations, the lower the possibility that I’ll succumb to depression. Lesser depression, greater means to make my dreams possible.
I guess I’ve said enough, but haven’t yet said everything. I’ll save them for my next write-up, if you call this a write-up. On my next paper, I’ll tell you why I’ve been dying to turn back time, how I’ve been wishing to become Nana, the lead character of The Girl who Leapt Through Time so that in just a hop, I’ll be able to become a student again. I’ll also tell you how morbid movies and novels make my life undeniably fulfilling and made me, somehow, fearless. And I’ll tell you, like any other normal girls with gasps and squeaks, how love, the love you feel with kilig and spark, have brought me to a happily ever after for a while and devastated me forever.
I just hope that by making this Galloping paper will somehow boost up my passion for the true love of my life and strengthen my relationship with ‘it’. The ending of this may either help me overcome this WBD or worsen my case. If the latter happens, I’d love to be in front of a shikigami, giving him half of my life-span or even wish to make my remaining years be just days. If writing is some kind of illegal drug, I’ll never ever enter a rehabilitation center. And if writing is a man, then I’m giving my eternity to a man for the very first time. The ending? I’m no longer an NBSB. O’ transition sucks.
Follow my chant if you’re also dreaming to become a hopeless vision-maker and words-tumbler. Breathe. Close your eyes. Then say. As silent as a whisper. Stephen King, Jonathan Kellerman, J.K. Rowling, Dean Koontz, Anne Rice, Nora Roberts, Sandra Brown, Paulo Coelho, Jonathan Sparks, John Grasham, _____________. ß Put your name here. (I actually know how corny the last part was, so well, please, bear with me)
