bliss in abstract - act 6

She has never eaten a meal in a restaurant. She eats her food standing in the cafeteria or at the snack bar on the street corner.
On Sundays, she always wake up early in order to be able to spend more time doing absolutely nothing. The worst moments of all are late on Sunday afternoon when she lapses into anxious meditations, the emptiness of childless and impotent Sundays.
She sighs as she recalls her childhood with nostalgia and believes that she had been happy. In truth, no matter how bad one’s childhood may have been it always sounds enchanted in recollection.
She would rather have her mind opened by wonder than being closed by belief.
The girls has never received gifts from anyone, and it does not worry her for she needs so little. There are those who have. And there those who have not. It is very simple: The girl has not.
Has not what? Simply this: She has not!
(If you get my meaning that is fine, and if you don’t, it is still fine.)
She never complains about anything, she accepts things as they are. She believes that one day she will gain a place in paradise reserved for misfits. She believes in everything that exists and everything non-existent as well. But, she does not know how to embellish reality. For her reality is enormous to grasp, besides, the world reality means nothing to her.

Again, I am afraid to start finishing this story. I ask myself how I am going to cope with so many facts without coming to grief. The figurative suddenly appeals to me; I create human action and tremble. Suddenly I crave the figurative like the painter who only uses abstract colors but wants to prove that he does so deliberately and not because he has no talent for drawing.
In order to draw the girl, I must control my emotions. In order to capture her soul, I must nourish myself frugally on bread and water, cheese and chilled coffee, because it is stifling in this cubby hole where I have locked myself away and where I feel a sudden urge to see the world.
I have also had to give up sex and workout, and tried to avoid all human contact. I should also mention that I read nothing these days for fear that I might adulterate the simplicity of my language with useless refinements.
As I write, the word is my musical instrument, and I must resemble the word. I want my tunes to sound like a charming woman that has just said yes to me, and I want my melodies to play like the sounds of pearls falling on a purple velvet.
I am more actor than writer, for with only one system of punctuation at my disposal. I juggle with intonation and force other’s breathing to accompany my text.
The question is: How do I write? I can verify that I write by eyes and ears; just as I learned English by eyes and ears. I am a man who possesses more money than those who go hungry, and this makes me in some way dishonest. I only lie at the precise hour of lying. But when I write I don’t lie.
What else? Yes, I belong to no social category, marginal as I am. The upper classes consider me a strange creature; the middle classes regard me with suspicion, afraid that I might unsettle them, while the lower classes avoid me.

No, it is not easy to write. It is as hard as breaking rocks. Sparks and splinters fly like shattered steel, again I must say.

I have explained those details at great length for having promised too much and offering too little. My story is almost trivial; the trick is to begin suddenly, like plunging naked into an icy ocean and bearing its intense coldness with suicidal courage.
These events belong in the present, and I must finish this awkward story because I am too exhausted to struggle and I am tormented and in state of anguish trying to put the last full stop on this savage act of despair.

- end of act 6 -

bliss in abstract - act 6

imagineering

Joined March 2009

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