On this sad side city street
Well the birds have been freed from their cages
I got freedom and my youth
For a while of late, I think I lost quite a bit of my mind. I hadn't gone crazy, but I knew something was awry because I just couldn't deal with logic, come up with new ideas or hold a thought without struggling, many times allowing concrete ideas to disintegrate into dust.
I can't put a finger to how long this has afflicted me, but it has been long and I've been waiting to see if this stifling fog would lift and thankfully, it has right now.
Being in such a position for me is, to put it nicely, terrifying.
I've wanted to write for quite some time. It doesn't help that it is quite self-appalling to know that I live in an age where I have the best technology I could ever ask for to help me release my thoughts into words, and I've probably written less compared to a time when I didn't have a laptop at my easy disposal.
A part of it is tempered by having a leaky mind. Ideas and thoughts always flood my brain when I see or do things, but once it's over, it's hard for me to get that moment of inspiration back. My art thrives on spontaneity, and unless I pen everything down as soon as possible, I lose nearly everything except the essence of the idea sometimes when I'm lucky.
In the same vein, deliberately trying to conjure art never works for me. It's of no use to me to put in more effort trying to look at things so as to get something out of them. Because this can take precedence over other things, I have an idealistic streak. Work and art alike, if it is to be done well, should be left to perfect, sudden inspiration. Anything stemming from a conscious, deliberated, rational effort to create is in itself already undermined. It is personally a gift and also a huge flaw.
Anyone could complain about the arduous journey one would have to make to get from Serangoon to Boon Lay. Many people who are fortunate enough to get a seat (especially given the recent smear campaigns on MRT seat-hoggers that promise slime-light for anyone in a chair next to an old man or a pregnant lady) devote that hour-odd travel to topping up on sleep. Some people just stand around pretending to mind their own business when they are (not so) discreetly checking out girls.
In the whirlpool of the dreary rush, monotony and uncomfortable squeeze of the daily commute, I've found and formed a little world in my books. It has given me the best place to escape to amidst the unpleasant morning zombies I have to travel with - each with his or her own unique facial expression of horror at his or her own existence at that point of time - and there is nothing better than to be caught up in thought. In those hour-odd time packets of zipping from home to a faraway place in Boon Lay, I have rediscovered my love for books again.
The Distillers - The Crazed Young Peeling