One day we will have nothing to talk about anymore.

I don't think this relationship that's purely conversational will last one year.

One of these days.

But its ok.

We would have served our purpose in each other's lives.

It will not be hard or painful.

But it will not change the fact that I will always wish we lasted the year... and that we were the ones meant to be together, meant to last a lifetime.

Just today I learned what overclocking meant.

It meant tweaking your pc hardware settings to the point where your computer is in between burning and speeding.

This week I guess I learned that situations cannot be overclocked.

There are situations that even the most profound love cannot change.

I feel like I am swimming in liquid coldness.

To have to start again.

To have to take the road away from him.

I wish it was 20 years forward.

And we can laugh at this past.

Finding each other again.

I'm not sure if you like me

I wont even ask.

I'm afraid of the answer

I'm not up to the task.

But I hope you would tell me

When you'll start talking

Or when you'll stop this silence

Are you just faking?

I wish we can all go back to the start

To the beginning of that first act

Of you and dad hiding behind the curtains

Somehow we made things

End at the beginning.

I wish we can all forget each other

If we are not talking, then let's all get to walking

Away from each other, away to somewhere

The farther from here, all the better.

I'm sure you can try to

Notice my existence

Send a text message

Find out where my road bends.

I'm missing you

Are you missing me too?

I can't help but notice

That you've lost your interest

In hearing about me

And my stupid adventures

They don't mean nothing,

I don't mean nothing.

I hope you can tell me

What you need me to show you

To deserve your love

Or at least your attention.

I guess I should go

Stop writing you songs

I guess I know

The answer to my questions.

And anyway, who cares

We're getting older

There will come a time

When all this wont matter.

So let's all say the end

And not wait for the credits

There's no one to blame

No time to make edits.

I'll say goodbye now

But I can't stop writing

My mind's telling me

There's so much left

To go without saying.

But who really cares,

You are not listening.

Recently I found out what the downside of all this self-promotion, ie blogging, shout-outing, tweeting and reality-showing, is.

The downside, is that the backstory gets told before the story.

Sure, backstories are great, if even an essential part in gaining a different level of understanding for a certain work, or even a life, but there's a reason why it's called a backstory.

It's a dichotomy. One serves as a foil for the other. One's the moon, and the other reflects the light towards it. One can't shine without the other. It's not really a villain-hero thing, it just is the way things go, a little bit of balance to keep the zero from closing in on itself.

So anyway, I was singing to Lily Allen and a little Tuck and Patti and I thought, hey maybe I'd a write a song. And when I got my blog, it just happened. I started writing the backstory of the song I will be writing.

Back in college, our thesis were two parts, one was theory, or basically writing the backstory or the prologue to your work; and of course the second was the actual literary whatever you want to do. 

Looking back I see that might be the reason why it took me such a hard time writing that thesis. First six months, you had to write a prologue of a creative work that you haven't even done yet. And the next six months, your creative work must live up or be boxed by the prologue that you did half a year ago.

Sure, maybe I was just anal, and maybe everybody else had the same problem. But it meant a lot. That was how the course structure was made, and so it may be the reason why I never really got to writing down that creative work, among other reasons, but it could be one.

Like now, I started of with the intention of writing a song, and here I am writing a backstory of the song.

The creative vibe right now is centered on the self. Write a blog. Tweet. Shout out. Update your status message. Live your life on TV.

It's just showing some fraying off the edges here and there. I guess what I'm saying is that we need to balance this out with an actual output. Because just being yourself, as in your bare self, making youtube videos of you trying on make-up and what not, hiding on myspace or whatever, just lost meat. 

Ok let me try it one more time. We have to actually live, write the story, create something, dance a jive or whatever, we have to bring out energy and create and do, before we can ever write interesting backstories. Backstories that matter, backstories that make our lives shine.

Because if your backstory is better than your life, then that's as if you haven't really done anything yet. Haven't really lived, yet.

So.

Let's see about that song. Later.

Having failed at my recent attempt at Nanowrimo I resorted back to reading novels.

The most recent being The Bride Stripped Bare.

After a few pages into it I remembered what one of my profs told me back in college, that the novel is almost a catch-all, when you're not sure of what you made, and given that it's long enough, call it a novel.

Short stories have to have a beggining, middle and end. The delicious word: denoument.

Poems are the most anal of all forms, and after learning that, I leave it to the champions, to the tower-dwellers to parry with.

Novels, now that's something lovely. The best ones are a pain to end, almost like leaving behind a life.

The Bride Stripped Bare gave me a little bit of hope into getting a novel out of my guts. It talks in phrases, it draws vignettes, it's characters are as unsure of themselves as you are of them, given only short glimpses to their almost silent world.

The form itself tells a story, and after a few chapters it grows in your gut and warms yourself up, the heat moving to your fingers, a massage to enliven the almost dead sinews, a message to write again, you can, you can, see? I have.

The story affirms the form. It destroys barricades more than the sleaziest of works have, it tells you that you can write about everyday, you can write about socks and cellulite, of not having orgasms with your husband, of loving the pensioned housewife life, of anything that you never thought would be honorable enough for printing.

I have not written in a while, not even one blog entry. But today, I am overflowing. Reading novels, reading anything, even the back of your shampoo bottle, can spur you into writing.

The opposite of a writer's block is when your muse suddenly arrives, apparently and always from another timezone, expecting you to be on your knees in praise, with welcome slippers in your mouth and a cup of freshly made hot chocolate in your hand.

After two days of physical labor, my mind was on snoozefest and my brain has shown no signs of creative activity whatsoever. Until tonight. When everyone else in the house is asleep and snoring in rhythm, when all the Christmas lights of the neighbors have all been turned off, when I am ready to call it a fantastic, deadline-free weekend, my muse arrives bringing all her siblings with her.

A noisy and nosy lot. I can't shut them off even if I wanted to, once they've settled, there's no cure, the mind is completely awake, so awake it can almost see into it's past and future, it let's out an apologia one minute and an homage to Howl in the next. Grammar is thrown into the cliff, the internal editor has been drugged, gagged and, for good measure, clubbed.

When you ask for it, when you practically beg for it to show even the hem of it's clothing, your muse simply has other more pressing things to do, like perhaps watch you rip your hair out of your head from trying to find the right words to write.

Now, it feels like they have ransacked the filing cabinets in my brain, rearranged, re-indexed (is there such a word?) and created a whole other system of filing ideas, thoughts, memories and musings, that now they all seem to have other things to say, other meanings, other insights that simply must be let out. A diarrhea of ideas.

Freud would be happy, or grim, to say that I probably was abused in my childhood since I keep relating my non-physical ailments to shit and anuses. First I had emotional constipation and now a diarrhea of ideas. Well, Freud, bugger off.

--

Amazing how a few hundred words can keep the idearrhea (wording the obvious, ugh, mortal sin, but this is my blog and this is my late night writing so bugger off) at bay. Now to bed, and tomorrow, let's hope I don't wake up with my mind having ruined the sheets. Hopefully by daylight my muse has moved on from fishing metaphors out of the toilet; it's getting smelly, my writing.

Not having written a word for NaNoWriMo 2010, I feel like I should NOT stop but that I should perhaps continue to write what I am more comfortable in: flash fiction.

That shouldn't be so bad.

So, my challenge is to end up with 30 short short stories by Dec 30, and if I do more, then great.

Now, to write.

Blame it on the long weekend, the Filipino culture, the rainy weather, family and friends.

I've got a lot of excuses for not being able to write my 1600+ words for the first day of NaNoWriMo 2010. But in the end, I have no real excuse. I could have made time but I preferred to sleep. I could have excused myself from the TV but I did not. This long weekend, I've been a lazy-ass pretentious writer. Master procrastinator.

Maybe I should stick to non-fiction.