I can't stop thinking, wondering about the way we keep leading our lives. So what is, in the end what pushes people through the maze of the days? If life is so tiresome and such a nightmare, why is people so afraid of dying? Oh, worry not, they are just some errand thoughts coming to me in the begining of the day. Nothing serious, but yes... branding. I have no idea if I had mentioned this earlier, though soon you will be filled to the brim with past notes and entries to prove what I'll repeat for the n-th time: I'm an amateur writer. The idea of what pulls and pushes people around life intrigues me to the point of trying out several ideas, and these ideas become stories. I am not a poet (or shall I say
poetess?), but I do have written a couple of verses in my life. They don't rhyme because I such big time at doing that, buut sometimes I feel like I
have to compose a poems. It's a strange compulsion for I normally hate poetry. I believe I have only liked Edgar Allan Poe, Mihail Lermontov and from time to time I find a Hungarian poet who gets to me, but otherwise, I dislike poetry. Compared with the endless, absorbing, extense prose, poetry strikes me like a limited form of expression that cuts chances and freedom into a set of rules only prose can break free.
Yes, yes, yes, poetry is free and there's art in expressing through it. It's heightened and beautiful and
blah, blah, blah, blah... I have always had the feeling that poetry has been forged to hide what you wish to say, use too little words to hint about too big issues, while prose use too little, too many or the exact amount, whatever you wish. Prose is so free it can SHOUT and fight and ... recoil and cry and load down onto you a whole psyche, or keep it together, closed and unreachable. I have no idea if a poet has ever broken into prose... I self declared poet, but prose writers do have... I have. I disregard metrics and rhymes, leghts or verse lenghts. The rhythm of my poems exist only in my head. I have normally written poetry for people in particular, but last year, I was held up into poetry for myself, for my inner issues and my inner space. The night of Halloween of last year, I was invaded in my head by a poem that started chanting inside me as I walked home, which I had to rush to write down. It was an intense experience, as it was night with a bright full moon hanging on the sky surrounded by an irregular cloud lace ringing it like a heavy cape or a royal, expensive furred hood around the bright, perfectly haloed head. It was one of those nights when you want to stay out staring alone at the moon and drink it up through your eyes.
No picture could ever capture the chilling beauty of nights like that, where the air itself gives so much to the moment. This Halloween night brought me memories of Henrik, which is why I heard my mind, and perhaps also my soul, shush these verses:
Love does not end
With the arrival of Death.
Truth is a Concept
That lives only in your Mind.
Facts don't prove
Anything.
"Love" is a word that
Can be said with an empty Heart.
The poem goes on pretty much in this same line for several more verses until they just run along formless and structure less. I'm a sad poet. Not like I'm much chirper as a writer, but indeed, as a poet, not only I'm a disaster, completely talentless, but also quite... sad and disturbing.
There's some kind of "paper" here at the office, some old reminiscence from the days the enterprise was sectioned into like five different areas according to the services offered: International (calls), Enterprises (corporative services), Mobile (duh), Landlines and Payphones. (In case you have not guessed it by now, I work at a Telcos.) Well, I came to work at the mobile section (then called something as utterly useless and stupid as
"business strategic unit". Hahahahaha! The only business there was the
"shady" kind, the strategy was the LACK of it and there was no unit or unity, for that matter, whatsoever.) at first, when I entered the enterprise. There they had this very stupid little paper... bigger in size than any of the national papers, composed on one, max two sheets of color printed paper. The idea behind this waste of good paper and vegetal life was to "share" the life and everdays and little details of the coworkers so we all get to know each other and work as a family. Fuck it. The place was filled with rivalry, office-gangs and little, closed groups far worse than anything you have ever seen in any schooldrama movie. Okay, granted, ain't as bad as what you hear from the ghetto schools, or schools in any poverty striken location, BUT that's because people here os well paid and really, no one needs to carry around guns when all they need here are connections, ill will and a gossip net reaching everywhere. The paper, so, became a forum to pose and get some spotlight. Get a cover, a central fold, a page-long "report" with a flattering picture and then boas about how you get "in the paper". P-Lease. Get. A. Life. But people here is just like that.
At one point, I was working right across the editor of the "paper". She was posting adds for people to send over their "thoughts" (a primitive and unevolved form of "literature" where people write a few lines about something they believe to be "wise". uhhhh...) and poetry. She asked my friend Jetty because she knew Jetty wrote poetry. Ô_Ô She's pretty much an epic/epic-fantastic poet, rather than me, a much more "romantic" kind of poet. Jetty told her that I wrote poetry as well (forgot to mention that mostly in English), so she asked me if I had anything to publish. I had already sent a poem in Spanish to some contest in Spain, and I was working on some others just to shake the vibe off my bones. I thought in sending her one a little "upcut" and not-very-acceptable. Ended up editing it to hide it's gay content, and yet, the editor turned it back to me because it was too
"sophisticated" for the general audience. So, a talentless, uninterested, halfassed poet like me is "too sophisticated" for the paper's audience? The paper's audience was the Enterprise!!!! Was I to believe that no one, from the engineers and tellers to the CEO was literate enough to read something like that? Geez man! But I'm BAD!!! Okay, granted, I have witnessed really crappy work that gets published, BUT still, there's no merit in comparing with the lower band, but only to the upper bar. Yes, there will be always someone shittier than you, many in fact, but the evolving, the improvement, the progress comes from looking up to those who run ahead of us. Well, that in case I would like to pursue the poetry, which I do not.
Searching my folders, I have found a poem I had no idea I have written. Has a lot of hints, like poetry does, but I kinda like it.
Choice
If I ever were given the Choice
I would eternally stay at your side.
It has been next to you where I learned
About loving so deeply that pain was no longer an issue.
At your side I’ve found everything
I would ever need to be complete
Because there will never be
State of Mind, State of Soul,
That could ever overcome
The absolute sense of Being
I revel in since I’ve said openly
That I love you above anyone.
I mind no gender anymore.
I mind no bloodlines.
I mind no consanguinity.
No conventions.
I’m above Conventions…
And law and society and “what would they say”.
Because no one could say anything more that:
Lo there someone who has found happiness
With the One who owns its beating heart.
You own my beating heart.
Unlike you would think, NO, I am not into someone of my family, of the same gender or otherwise. I guess I worte this in a moment I was deep-caught in an incestuous story, which happens or happened often with teh requests I got. Yes, I have been a writer-by-demand. For free, you mind. It's impressive all you can find in the Internet. I wonder if you could do a business like that: set a site where people can request specific stories and people write them for a price. I guess it would be worth trying. Too bad I'm a slowpoke writer. Would have to start testing for free, kinda like a "pilot" before jumping into the paid business. Not poetry, of course, but real writing, prose, for which I do have some talent. Or so I say, and so far no one has ever proved me wrong or told me otherwise in my face.
I'll se about it. I'll let you know what have I decided.
