Why is it that when I see a young seagull rolling down a roof,
I have this urge to write about a young seagull rolling down a roof,
even though I don’t care about a young seagull rolling down a roof?
But before I could find a good reason—any reason—after a brief
tussle in the gutter, the young seagull flew away crying, unscathed
and unaware.
If I taught myself musical notation, would I be able to write music even though I can’t play any instruments? One might say, What a completely ridiculous idea—it’s like asking if, once you learn the alphabet, you could write Long Day’s Journey Into Night, In Search of Lost Time, or The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. But is it really? I know, I’m not a bloody Shakespeare, and I wasn’t suggesting that I would attempt to write a new Hamlet. The thing is, there are times when melodies come to my mind, and I hum them to my internal pleasure, but they are gone soon after. If only I wrote them down to be able to come back to them at a later time, who knows what they might evolve into? After all, even though I’m not even remotely close to being at the level of T. S. Eliot, I managed to write a few fairly decent poems. Of course, assuming I don’t have dysmusia.
I can remember words I read only for a little while, so I keep the most treasured pages close.
This way, I can read them again whenever I so desire. But every now and then I ask myself,
Why have I learned how to read in the first place? And, most importantly, why have I learned
how to write? To manoeuvre more shrewdly through all the tedious little dramas of ours?
I know there were times when imagination was a threat. The visionary was nothing but a regular
at the asylum, or even better, burned at the stakes. I am not that stubborn; you can bet on it.
But ever since the winter of my birth passed, I have been looking forward to seeing another
one—the one perceived as a betrayal. Betrayal of what?
hidden pilcrow 