Here’s a secret.
I haven’t finished a book or a magazine in a while– any sort of reading material actually. I mean, I have, technically, finished a few things (others have battered covers already because I bring them around, but I’m pretty sure I’m only a few chapters in), but not in the way that I used to– I haven’t devoured anything from start to end, cover to cover, front to back, and emerged inspired, energised, comforted, blah blah and whatever else “-ed” I usually get from reading. Even with a great piece. Even with a crappy piece. Sure, there have been things I’ve enjoyed but off the top of my head, I can’t think of anything that has stayed with me as of late. Even comic books– I go through the dialogue, waiting for the cliffhanger at the end, barely looking at the art. I don’t let names or faces settle. My mind blanks when I’m asked for something specific.
I have this odd feeling that I’ve become a piece of fiction. That I can be boiled down into a paragraph or two, that I can be explained in a novel, that all my twists and turns are a plot. I can’t settle down into an everyday– I feel like each and every day should be riveting!, fascinating!, out of this world!— something to write about, something never to forget. I see myself too much in the things that I read, even when it’s just a phrase, an instance, an example. I don’t know where this is coming from. I feel like something is forcing my humanization, and I don’t understand why.
I have no enthusiasm to discuss– not a movie I’ve seen, or a book I’ve read, or people I know, or thoughts I’ve had, or ideas I’ve birthed (birthed talaga, Andrea? Anyway)– and instead all I want to do is listen. I’ve always enjoyed doing interviews, because I get to ask and ask and ask, and I don’t come off as strange or suspicious because my curiosity is justified.
I don’t even know how those last three paragraphs are even related. I feel like they are– I know they are– but I can’t sew them together.
Then again, that’s me, isn’t it? I keep thinking, I’ll be me again soon, I’ll be me again soon, I’ll be me again soon— I’ll go back to who I was a couple of years ago, or few years ago, or a decade ago, and everything will be okay– but it doesn’t happen. How long does a phase last anyway? “I’ll be me again soon.” Right. When I get sewn back together. When the pieces fit again. When I figure it out.
Where the fuck am I going? Why do I still have this blog? Why did I not go on that archaeological dig when I had the chance? Why can’t I settle down?