Why don't you write when you're happy?
I can't, really.
Have you tried?
'Course I have, but pretty soon it gets frustrating, then I'm not happy anymore.
Why?
When I am happy I find I have nothing to write about, or speak of. The moment I feel as if everything is alright, I cease being a storyteller.
My sadness is my elixir, in that sense. It is necessary for me to be sad so that I can write about it and twist and stitch it into poetry or slightly luxurious narratives. The last time my heart was broken, I wrote a hundred poems: that was three years ago. Maybe even more. Enough to publish a book, one day. They lie inside my wooden chest of drawers with golden - not gold - handles. The handles themselves have an exceedingly exquisite appearance; they look a bit like peacocks, though not exactly. It is quite puzzling. Why would you make something look a little like a peacock when you can make it look exactly like a peacock? Peacocks are quite pretty. Then again, perhaps the maker of that chest of drawers didn't think that. Or maybe he wanted to save money. Or maybe he forgot he was supposed to make peacocks and not abominations in the name of aesthetics. I don't know. I don't know anything.
You never published the book, did you?
No. I didn't want to see her on my bookshelf every morning. My bed faces the bookshelf. Some might argue that arrangement releases some sort of negative energy into my home, but really, I can't see how it could get any worse. A writer would probably do well not to pay attention to any superstitions. Of course, perhaps the greatest superstition any writer of (dis)repute has fallen prey to would be that if they write every day, sooner or later they will be paid for it.
You don't sell any of your writings?
I show some of them to a friend. Our meetings are every Saturday at six o' clock in the evening, under a tree where there are no crows, so we are not disturbed. We sit in silence and read each other's writings. Sometimes the silence becomes deafening, though. It rings in my ears, at which point I am forced to bid my dear friend adieu, and retreat to my not-so-safe haven, a cocoon of bricks and wood and cement and artificial light and sunlight and rain and quite a bit of sadness. I write to give my melancholiness a form, a figure. Traumatizing words inside your head are a little better than traumatizing half-formed pictures inside your head.
What is your name?
I'd rather not say. Let us, for the time being, call me The Lamenter, as lamentation is what I have the most time for, being alone and quite set in my ways - unless, of course, someone else came along - which I would not advise in my present state, frankly. Speaking of lamentation, I regret greatly that one time my phone was ringing and I didn't take the call. But to be fair, my phone rings very loudly - if not in real life, then at least inside my head - and it scares me. That was the last time she would have spoken to me. Instead, the last time I spoke to her, I cursed her for not being able to understand me, I cursed myself for not understanding who I was. I slammed all my doors and shut myself in my room and I wrote, and wrote, and didn't properly stop writing until three months later. Time snatched her away from me.
Where is she now?
Up there, where all the angels go. She was an angel. Not a very brilliant one, mind you, but if there were a test, she would ace it. She used to be mine. Of course, she did very much belong to herself, too. She used to paint the skies. She invited me to watch, once. I never went.
Look up, do you see the sunset?
It's orange, pink, and purple. And a bit of green, there, in the corner. The sky looks like a mattress of cotton.
Hell, you could be a writer, too, someday.
I am one.
I can't, really.
Have you tried?
'Course I have, but pretty soon it gets frustrating, then I'm not happy anymore.
Why?
When I am happy I find I have nothing to write about, or speak of. The moment I feel as if everything is alright, I cease being a storyteller.
My sadness is my elixir, in that sense. It is necessary for me to be sad so that I can write about it and twist and stitch it into poetry or slightly luxurious narratives. The last time my heart was broken, I wrote a hundred poems: that was three years ago. Maybe even more. Enough to publish a book, one day. They lie inside my wooden chest of drawers with golden - not gold - handles. The handles themselves have an exceedingly exquisite appearance; they look a bit like peacocks, though not exactly. It is quite puzzling. Why would you make something look a little like a peacock when you can make it look exactly like a peacock? Peacocks are quite pretty. Then again, perhaps the maker of that chest of drawers didn't think that. Or maybe he wanted to save money. Or maybe he forgot he was supposed to make peacocks and not abominations in the name of aesthetics. I don't know. I don't know anything.
You never published the book, did you?
No. I didn't want to see her on my bookshelf every morning. My bed faces the bookshelf. Some might argue that arrangement releases some sort of negative energy into my home, but really, I can't see how it could get any worse. A writer would probably do well not to pay attention to any superstitions. Of course, perhaps the greatest superstition any writer of (dis)repute has fallen prey to would be that if they write every day, sooner or later they will be paid for it.
You don't sell any of your writings?
I show some of them to a friend. Our meetings are every Saturday at six o' clock in the evening, under a tree where there are no crows, so we are not disturbed. We sit in silence and read each other's writings. Sometimes the silence becomes deafening, though. It rings in my ears, at which point I am forced to bid my dear friend adieu, and retreat to my not-so-safe haven, a cocoon of bricks and wood and cement and artificial light and sunlight and rain and quite a bit of sadness. I write to give my melancholiness a form, a figure. Traumatizing words inside your head are a little better than traumatizing half-formed pictures inside your head.
What is your name?
I'd rather not say. Let us, for the time being, call me The Lamenter, as lamentation is what I have the most time for, being alone and quite set in my ways - unless, of course, someone else came along - which I would not advise in my present state, frankly. Speaking of lamentation, I regret greatly that one time my phone was ringing and I didn't take the call. But to be fair, my phone rings very loudly - if not in real life, then at least inside my head - and it scares me. That was the last time she would have spoken to me. Instead, the last time I spoke to her, I cursed her for not being able to understand me, I cursed myself for not understanding who I was. I slammed all my doors and shut myself in my room and I wrote, and wrote, and didn't properly stop writing until three months later. Time snatched her away from me.
Where is she now?
Up there, where all the angels go. She was an angel. Not a very brilliant one, mind you, but if there were a test, she would ace it. She used to be mine. Of course, she did very much belong to herself, too. She used to paint the skies. She invited me to watch, once. I never went.
Look up, do you see the sunset?
It's orange, pink, and purple. And a bit of green, there, in the corner. The sky looks like a mattress of cotton.
Hell, you could be a writer, too, someday.
I am one.
~
