With a mix of self-disgust and self-anger I write this. I am so ill-prepared. If I write about me, would it change anything? Would it fulfil the dream I ‘built’ to dream? In an unsure past, I had verve, but I either let it go or I killed it. The verve I had made me sure, made me firm. The ‘spit’ that came out of my mouth cushioned in this verveness made people ‘slip and tumble’. But now, what can I possibly say about myself?
I write this in my current inability to write. The most hardest thing in the world to do is this: Write about myself. In my past, there was spirit, a spirit carefully unearthened and dusted out for all to see like a 6-foot treasure in an obscure treasure map, a spirit that lit higher than fire, a spirit that had a stronger consuming effect than fire. I was more than ready to illustrate the literature of my age. My dreams were so real I could see them wherever I went. I learned and I yearned.
I exaggerate here, all this elastic talk. What can I say about me? This rhetorical question is a drag, isn’t it? Currently, I ‘drag’ meself into this jet-age era, the age of the hip-hop, the age of the new skool. I awkwardly fit in, a somewhat ‘casualty’ of the education I acquired.
Someone told me: “You know so little about yourself, but others know so much about you.” Fuck it! Not truthfully knowing who I am makes my future so bleak and dark that groping there is sure fun. Love is a sure thing, I hold onto that. Should I define who I am by what I do or say or wear or eat or drink or where I walk or sleep…? Or should I define who I am by what I think of other people? As a writer, I do think of other people, those that exist and those that don’t.
As I write this, I stop in between to doze off for seconds, in snatches. This is why I never keep a diary: I just can’t keep up. When I tried when I was young, that failure was woeful and the diary lost forever. Yes, with the way I write now, I scare people away, but only those who choose to be.
Who am I? The only child of my mother? No. The first child of my late father? No. An administrative officer in a multipurpose cooperative society limited? No. A Roman Catholic? No. Single, not yet searching, ready to mingle? No. Bisexual? No. Waking up every early morning to listen to my Kchibo World Receiver little-finger-batteried radio tuned to the ‘spastic’ BBC World Service? No. A creative literary writer? No. This is not me. In a world that contradicts itself constantly and battles with its self-inflicted problems, where ignorance is bliss, a bloody revolution imminent and ‘forceful’ evolution inevitable, I am nothing and no one. I should see myself in other people’s eyes, but people are so many and so different…what a maze, a haze!
I should write this when death is near, even though I know death is mysterious. Remember the Henchard will at the tail end of Thomas Hardy’s THE MAYOR OF CASTERBRIDGE? Well, that is my will unrevoked. I guess I am yet to live enough, just a lousy guess.