Some time last week, during a not so good day in the office, I aimlessly got up, turned my pc off and left. Supposedly for a random trip to LB; a well deserved break; a meeting with Laurence; hopefully, a talk with my adviser. However, Laurence was in Diliman then. Fucking acing his courses again. That little genius. I didn’t wanna go home, so I found myself strolling in festival to the direction of the book sale. Can’t remember the last time I was there. When I got there, I just sat there like a lost puppy. I definitely got a handful of stares from middle-aged women who were rummaging through shelves of Danielle Steeles as I sat on a stack of medical textbooks looking at shelves up and down, then up again. I didn’t know what I went there for. Well books, duh, but what kind exactly? I remember sitting there thinking what I want to buy, but really thinking about what I want to do with my life. I even picked up a book in Latin, considering the idea of learning something new. Didn’t even scan it. I quickly dismissed such a silly thought. I also looked through a book on Klimt, one of my favorite artists, but didn’t think it worth reading. There was this one coffee table book with photographs of strangers and pop culture people smoking. I wanted to buy it for my brother just to tease, but thought it such an expensive joke. I ended up with fiction, and don’t I always? Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex; Yann Martel’s Life of Pi; Khaled Hosseini’s Kite Runner; and two Poetry folios. I remember feeling a mix of sadness (that day’s theme) and excitement. I wanted to fly home and start reading, or writing. I remember scanning the poetry folio and feeling an intense need for a pen so I can comment on the sides. I remember being close to tears with the sudden surge of inspiration. But when I got home, I just lied in my bed til I fell asleep and forgot all about these emotions. Anything with me is shortlived. I can’t seem to protect the fire enough to make it last. The only reason I can write about this experience, however painful it was for me during that time, is because I’m over it now. Just like that. No resolutions; no explanations; no nothing. I dread the possibility of truth in what I have always feared: that I lose everything in sleep. That in the course of dreaming, I forget. This was a good material for the story I once wrote for class. But in reality, I fear that it is real. Especially now that I seem to sleep even while I am awake. This would make me forget in broad daylight what I could still hold on to til night when I am forced to actually give in to exhaustion. I hate sleep. I hate it now more than ever. It makes me unproductive. Most of all, it makes me dream.
I truly am the queen of segues, am I not? I have now lost my train of thought. What is the point of this entry again, other than to help me remember?