/ Friday, February 3, 2012 /
"Each time he took a walk, he felt as though he were leaving himself behind, and by giving himself up to the movement of the streets, by reducing himself to a seeing eye, he was able to escape the obligation to think, and this, more than anything else, brought him a measure of peace, a salutary emptiness within…By wandering aimlessly, all places became equal and it no longer mattered where he was. On his best walks he was able to feel that he was nowhere. And this, finally was all he ever asked of things: to be nowhere".  
- The New York Trilogy, Paul Auster

Days and nights find their way to my doorstep a little bit late. I've been doing the same thing over and over again--- write, write, write. When one is supposed to weave ( how does distill and concoct sound?) words for a living, you get past this point where staring into the far distance frequently in a day does not surprise you anymore.

I am not even sure if I got the supposedly weaving of words right. Of course, writing is one of those things that I hold dear but doubts, as always,  creep in. It is what I am tasked to write (add in poring over texts that sometimes don't make sense or too utterly incomprehensible to grasp that they're not really meant for publishing) that empties me of anything worth capturing in ink.

Insert "Pointless" here.
A good number of people at work are playing this guessing game-- ala Eat Bulaga's Pinoy Henyo. I casually mentioned that we don't have TV at home (we do have one but it's rarely used) which explains why I have this clueless look every time local celebrities are talked about in one of the categories. One of the mortified colleagues asked what type of life do I lead and further commented that perhaps, my days are dull and tasteless. I simply responded, "But there's always the Internet." I could have thrown back an answer explaining that life without TV is not dull at all, that there are thousand worlds out there waiting to be discovered and waiting to be named. But I was feeling sluggish the entire day and realized that there's no used proving my point when I feel bland myself. She might be right. But I'm not yet entirely convinced.

Insert another "Pointless" here.
I believe in the existence of a remedy though, an antidote to all the pointlessness permeating the self. This might be what drowning feels, the infinite blue above blanketing you to a deep slumber amidst the rocking waves. You gasp for air but nothing's left. Buoyancy has left.  

Gravity has found me.

I will continue to write. I am writing now. Letter after letter, line after line. I will feel better after this. I feel better now. And I will read, walk, listen, talk, and sleep more. Yes, maybe love more. Before anyone else, I shall be a lover to myself. And yes, there are a lot of friends to see, meet and talk to soon. Now, will you excuse me?


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I usually say, in the end, okay, it’s love and it’s work — what else could there possibly be? -- Maira Kalman


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