Monday, April 25, 2005

I sleep, I slumber.

I love to dream. I love to sleep.
I love to fly. I love to leap.
Wake me not, please, I love to soar.
Stop. Shatter my dreams no more.

Those who have read The Little Prince by Antione de Saint Exupery would be familiar with the notion of kids and grown-ups. Kids would undoubtedly be those who have in themselves the power to smile, to fly and to live life happily. Grown-ups were portrayed to boring people who deal with non-creative subjects like geography and politics. I do agree that it is quite harsh for geographers to be categorized with politicians. It is also quite prejudicial to assume that grown-ups are boring people. However, all epistemological errors aside, the book shows us that some people are imaginative while some are no more than an automaton controlled by their environment.

Growing up is usually a trade-off between imagination and reality. Some pursue the fields of engineering, sciences and mathematics and, in the process, give up on their childhood fantasies. Sure, they do fantasize about something but it is a subject we'd rather not discuss.

Some, however, still retain their dreams. Most of them pursue the arts and, eventually, they live their dreams. Again, allow me to remind you that it is presumptuous to think that the field of a person’s specialization determines his or her imaginative state.

I once talked to someone how it would be great to have a crossover of worlds, where monsters roam free and people have to hack and slash through hordes of them to get to their offices. Of course, it would also be great if these monsters dropped items like money, mobile phones or mp3 players. If not, we would have settled for junk so long as there is a general shop somewhere that buys and sells anything without discrimination. Yes, an RPG life would be an interesting change. In the course of our light discussion, I learned nothing worthwhile. I learned nothing new about him, the world or even myself. However, I do not regret having brought up the topic.

On the other hand, I once listened to someone talking about her working life. She went on, spewing a few figures along the way. I tried to keep up with the mathematics but failed. At first, I listened and questioned some concepts about economy and business management. I have learned a lot but I found my eyelids drooping. I gathered a lot of information that was soon to be discarded when I fell asleep. I knew it was a grave insult to someone and that I myself would not tolerate such behavior but it was getting harder to stay awake. Such was her power over worthwhile boredom.

Between these people, I would have chosen the senseless musings about RPG's than learning how to handle businesses. This is quite odd since I am a person who values knowledge so greatly. On the other hand, it might be expected of me as a writer to appreciate creativity more than intelligence. I have no idea.

I could only say that I was lucky enough to have the time to pursue both a field in engineering and literary writing. Not too many people are lucky enough to have such opportunities and I am greatly indebted to certain people concerning this privilege. However, I think that even without time, I would still find a way to capture fleeting butterfly dreams in streaks of ink on paper. As a friend once said, writing is in my blood.

I do realize that I run the risk of giving people the false impression of a good writer. Whether I am a great writer or not depends on whomsoever reads my works. Whatever their opinion may be, though, I am still a writer and I am grateful to be one.

One of the most painful wounds one can inflict on me is that which attacks me as a writer or as a dreamer.

Monday, April 18, 2005

I See London. I See France.

Hello St_______, I thought I saw you at the pool last night.

Hello St_______, I cannot remember when I first saw you but I do remember the next few times that I did. I thought you were my high school classmate so I smiled at you. You just passed by as if I was smiling at someone behind you. I was puzzled; I shrugged my shoulders and went on my way.

Hello St_______, I remember the first time you smiled at me. I remember being attracted to you, although it was no more than physical attraction. As I did before, I shrugged my shoulders. Lust has a way of fading out if you ignore it for long. Sure, you were in my fantasies sometimes but I would never cross the stupid line. Our relationship was nothing but professional.

Hello St_______. Why do you keep looking at me? Why do you keep smiling uneasily at me? Is it because you are worried I might be offended by the joke someone cracked? Or is it because you are just friendly with everyone else? Is it because I did not know what was so funny? Or is it because I was the one who was hilarious?

Hello St_______. I soon fell to thinking about you. No longer do I have you in my fantasies; you have earned my respect that I can no longer bring myself to think of you that way. I am convinced I am still physically attracted to you but I doubt that there is nothing more. I am quite sure it is not love just as I am sure it is not lust. I am confused.

Hello St_______, I thought I saw you at the pool last night. I have gone on vacation, if only to distance myself from the overwhelming stimuli I find online. You still wore those glasses; you still wore that smile. Your warm and friendly aura remained contagious. I cannot help but gape as you stripped down to your swimwear. I cannot help flushing as I became conscious of myself. I cannot help sinking into the water so that you will not see me staring so hungrily. I felt horny but there is something else.

"Hello St_______," I said, warily. You turned to me with a puzzled face. I had to profusely apologize for my mistake. It was quite embarrassing having to tell others you have mistaken them for someone else: someone you have often thought of, lately.

Hello Stranger. It was with relief and a bit of frustration that I realized it was not you after all.

There is no need to hurry
when you defy the hours.
I cannot tell the future
when today is not ours.