Do you remember that feeling
when you finally find out what the melody is
that has been haunting you for months,
after you’ve heard it just once by chance,
only to be played all of a sudden
by the violas and cellos—an ostinato
carved into the black vinyl—as a farewell
to the kind of reserved innocence
you often only begin to savour
when it’s already too late? I do.
If only you had realised then
that you could survive on a single act
of desperation.
I pulled an all-nighter, struggling
to keep my eyes open at times,
just to watch two cours in one sitting
of some old anime I hadn’t seen in years,
and it wasn’t even my favourite one.
But it’s not like I planned this;
it just sort of happened out of sheer inertia,
as if my body decided it for me,
the same as not showering for weeks
or staying indoor with the curtains drawn.
I’ve come to the conclusion that slowly dying is too demanding a job
to make room for other pointless pursuits, like memorising new words
or ever-so-slightly changing faces, which of course leaves me no choice
but to outsource all the embellishments that are commonly considered
life’s essential ingredients—though it’s not as if I don’t appreciate
an occasional reminder that the regrets we draw from the callow years
are not what stimulate our due desires—and embrace the humble life
of an urban hermit with somewhat perverted interest in death.
As days of vigour wither on the creeper,
so do the specious ploys and inclinations;
yet something keeps the throb in a sagging chest
of the quinquagenarian in the making, which is fair,
for even the turning of wine into water
requires having the plonk in the first place.
‘Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate’
Divina Commedia, Dante Alighieri
If only I were never born
sentient, like a piece of rock, a handful of soil,
a pebble at the bottom of a mountain stream,
or a speck of dust immune to the curse of life,
though perhaps even that would not be enough,
for the inscription over the gate actually reads:
to be.
I learnt a new word: commiserations.
Ironically, it was used in response to the news
of someone’s engagement,
but frankly, having tried wedlock myself,
I understand the sentiment.
However you slice it, marriage has always been
and always will be a soul-crushing trap
that complements the cruelty
of birth.
Whether I listen to the clatter of a typewriter or the crackle of sparks
in the fireplace, my voice remains feeble because, in a way, I’m still a child,
for there are things in old books I haven’t learnt and likely never will,
convinced that what’s left is to talk to myself—and even that out of habit
rather than necessity—while sitting in a dark room with the curtains drawn,
staring at a volume of Cavafy and a cup of cold redbush tea, wondering
why I am sad when children were supposed to be carefree, innocent
creatures of forgive and forget.
A clock can’t outlive time—at best, it can tell
that your autumn holidays are an hour longer
after you’ve decided you’re just an unassuming tourist
wandering the soggy back alleys full of perplexing words
in search of the greatest passage—but as it breaks,
you notice it’s not just its hands that stop.
Whether I close my eyes or the curtains, nothing makes me so bold as to strip
the act of performed nightly routines of their supposed innocence,
and yet here and there I catch a flicker of doubt creeping onto the page,
occasionally jamming the typewriter or spilling out in an inkblot
as if it were the revenge of a worn-out fountain pen I was given when I came of age.
At least the pencil maintains a semblance of decency—which is a little unsettling
since it’s not my favourite writing implement—so I wonder if it might help me
retrieve from the rubble I’ve hoarded over the years the one word I need most.
Perhaps then I will learn what I’ve been looking for so desperately all this time,
even if it’s only enough for a brass plaque on the backrest of a park bench.
