Sunday, 29 April 2012

Am I a writer?

I sit and stare, my will to live locked firmly in the grip of the common cold. My nose cannot decide if it wants to run like a waterfall or suffocate me by erecting an impenetrable barrier in my nostrils, so it flickers between the extremes at random intervals; my eyes feel like they have been rubbed by the coarsest sandpaper, doused in lemon juice and kicked around by a primary school soccer team; my thoughts move at a snail’s pace and my ears pass information to my brain well after my mouth has already responded; and my throat has managed to procure razor blades to line its walls as defence against swallowing. I am quite certain I am going to die — at least, that is what I have been telling people.

I have a lot of work to do, my free time sits precariously on the edge of a mountain of menial tasks. My inbox is backed up further than a Chinese traffic jam and many of the messages contain less comprehensible English; my attention feels like it is divided into more flows than the central nervous system and less able to transmit a valid signal; the time allowed to complete each job decreases exponentially with the increasing complexity of the item; and putting more effort and time in, only leads to more expectations and more questions asked should I decide to skip the overtime for a day. I am quite certain that if I worked non-stop for the rest of my life, the list of things I have done will not equal the list of things yet to do — at least, that is what I have been telling people.

I am unlucky in love, my heart travels in the pockets of those who forget it is there and forgets to beat when conditions are perfect for a rush of blood. My life is a tale of assessing pursuers, getting caught, falling head over heels and watching from the floor as they run on to find another conquest. My heart bears the scars of chasing down loves unreachable, loves unattainable, loves unrequited; never leaving bruises on loves unwanted. My mind is full of pleasant memories sitting outside of empty, love-shaped boxes that would be perfect if the feelings teetering on their ledges simply fell in. I am quite certain that I am destined to spend my life surrendering to the wrong advances, shooting for the wrong targets and filling the wrong boxes with my love — at least, that is what I have been telling people.

I am full of ideas, there is not a star in the sky that does not have a back-story in my mind. My head is full of the syllables for painting a blurry image on a blank piece of paper; I know just enough adjectives to make a superlative a super superlative; rhyming sounds abound when needed to compound the new found ground of an idea; and I can speak from a distance as well as I can speak in your ear even though you might not be able to hear what I am saying in either instance.

I am certain I am not going to die from this cold in the same way that I am certain I will eventually get my work done in the same way that I am certain to meet someone at the right place in the right time, eventually … but you can convince yourself of anything if it is what you keep telling people.

I am quite certain I am a writer — at least, that is what I have been telling people.