Tuesday, 01/27/04 - 5:55 pm.
I'm halfway through Flush. It's actually a better book than I thought, you know? I can't help feeling a little like Miss Barret and Flush himself (no, it doesn't have anything to do with toilets for me anymore).
One quote I love, because I feel it's something I've always tried to say in a thousand words is "I have as much to tell as a caged bird" (I'm not sure if this is the real line, as I've translated it...but that's the idea). The book gets me a little emotional and sad. Both because of the story of Flush and because of the way I relate to it.
Emotional. That's how I got last night. I'm not going to lie, I'm not feeling a burning inside consuming me, oh, so, painfully. It's more like having a thorn in your fingertip, twenty four seven. It hurts, but you can go on with life, can't you? It makes you want to cry at times but you don't cry, you just feel like it, because it's really not big deal like, say, being punched in the testicles with a hammer (I, lacking a Y chromosome, can only imagine).
Like in Yellow Submarine, I'm in the middle of nothing. It looks like nothing. It feels like nothing. Nothing hurts me, a lot. I feel nothing. It's not emptiness, it's not numbness. It's nothingness. It's like waiting for something, a good surprise, you know will never come your way. It's like wanting to speak and not having a tongue, like staring at the TV when it's off. Like...a 1965 John Lennon waiting for Yoko, but in a parallel, twisted universe, in which Yoko stayed in Japan for her whole life and became a secretary. So John keeps waiting his whole life, swimming in his pool, waiting for that "something"...and he finally died (whenever it is in this universe), incomplete and empty. With nothing.
- Ringo: he's probably one of the nothings.
����- Paul: well, at least that's something.
Yeah, I feel something: nothing.
I want to write. Sometimes I have this urge, this urge in my fingers and in every one of my braincells to write. To grab a pen and a piece of paper and write away everything I want to say, everything I feel, to shape in words every chemical and electrical connection between my neurones. Write it beautiful, the story no one knows because I own it and I've kept it to myself until then. I feel there's something I don't know I know. A part of me has something to tell, knows something very important, but the other part of me (whichever it is) doesn't know that. And the urge burns down when I grab the pen. I get frustrated and I run away from every desire to write.
Ok, yes, so I sit in front of the monitor and type away, everyday, and I make long entries most of times...but this is a journal (and it embarrases me having hand written journals), it's about me, me, me. I'd like to write something that had to do with me, but it wasn't me. I get tired of being me. Specially when I feel nothing.
What are you going to write about, anyway? You have nothing to tell the world, you never have. You'd rather keep quiet, don't you? You have nothing to say.