IT IS official. I have forgotten how to write. It didn’t take more than a sentence to know that I won’t be getting anywhere. My thoughts could no longer command these brittle fingers to pry themselves open. Perhaps they have gotten so accustomed to wielding a pen that jabbing at a Chiclet keyboard seems so alien, unnatural.
Even if my thoughts could churn out a few writing points, what shall I write about? Should I finally write about my father, which I have so long yearned to do? Should I spew details about the boring daily grind of my uneventful existence? Or, maybe, I should write about something I was once accused to be incapable of when I was much younger. Maybe I should write about Love.
But I know better. The subject of love is a cob of corn in the middle of a minefield. Readers will cringe and laugh at “You will always be my only love,” yet swoon like docile bamboo stalks at “I want you to bite my lip until I can no longer speak, and then suck my ex girlfriend’s name out of my mouth just to make sure she never comes up in our conversations.” Could somebody tell me about the protocols? I was never good at this. Shall I just, for example, write something along the lines of…
“You manipulative bitch! I detest the manner by which you played upon my sympathies; how you coerced me into cradling you in my arms all day for the last 2 months; how you kept ignoring me afterwards as though I am but an insipid figment of your imagination; how you left me crumpled and dejected before your feet that Friday afternoon; how you made me lay fresh flowers every morning at your bed or light sweet-scented candles during the brightest times of day; how, in spite of all these, you possessed the audacity to conspire against me and let well-dressed men, folks you barely knew, carry you in a box and whisk you away from me.”
Love, regardless of what we believe in, is morbid in the end. Believing that, can I still write about tender embraces without sounding brash like a filibuster in a pulpit or callous as a celebrity’s Facebook page? How could I when I have forgotten how it feels to crown a song, a prose, a sonnet, haiku, verse or metaphor upon someone’s head. I have forgotten the marvelous patter of rain on the skin. I have forgotten the warm, electric sensation of a loving gaze. Alienation. God knows how I long for the scent of cinnamon and coffee on my hair.
I have forgotten how to write. That’s the truth. Either I have fallen into an abyss or the abyss has fallen upon me. To say that a writer will always be a writer is to deny the obvious — brain cells have no muscle memory. And to believe that I am a writer in the strictest sense of the word is to believe in striped unicorns.
(discourse over cinnamon-spiked latte)