“He was no longer mastered by his experience; his experience was mastered by what he had written.” Milan Kundera

I began as just a pupil and now I consider myself an ignoramus in relation to anything that has to do with matters of the soul, of the heart, of emotions,of the human condition, of relationships, of love. I have experienced an abruption that made me wish I was an aborted child that never was, and worst of all, I knew all along that the abruption was bound to happen, and yet it came as abrupt as ever.

There is some weird uncanny feeling that is always attached to the inexorable incidents that happen to us. It is as if they have been prophesized by someone playing a lyre, enchanting us with a voice so sweet it lulls our reason, yet awakens our mind to some future event, which we know about, and yet only perceive as part of reality when it happens. Like the knowledge of death. Such feeling of abrupt loss does not go unparalleled with a feeling of missing or yearning or nostalgia. Even now as I write this I can still remember and force myself to smell the fuming smoke of cigarettes, the sour sliced lemon peels; I can force myself to taste sour red wine, the stale nuts, the dryness of the air; I can force myself to hear the clangour of glasses, the background muzak (was it a lyre that was playing?), the gossip from the table next to me, the laughter from the table in front of me; I can force myself to visualize tequila glasses with salt icing on their tips, drunken people all around, some of them looking happy, others looking sad, the bartender washing shot glasses in a hurry and pouring more tequila into them, and in the middle of the pub, a girl in white who just came in, looking around with a lost look on her face, trying to radar any friends of hers; In that moment of bedazzlement, I can still feel the bottomless pit I created for her to fill.

But what good is nostalgia for me now? It does not help at all. It makes me remember what happened and what did not happen. It makes me a slave to my past memories which stand entrenched inside every cavern of my brain like a strong unmoving boulder. So I want to embellish my memories with fantasies and dreams. I want to confuse reality with desire. I wear my knight’s armour, arm myself with my pen and ink, and quixotically begin to alter my reality. I stride the many hills of my memory and intoxicatingly begin to draw colours upon the now-jaded memories. Will the alteration of the past, albeit just in my mind, change my present? Or my future?

Could she love me again? Will she hate me? Did she call me my name?

Yes, I remember now. She called my name and I turned my head. She wasn’t calling for me, of course, but it was my name, so I turned, I waved, she smiled awkwardly, but she approached me. Her friend did not come, but I was there, I had a seat next to me, she sat with me on the table. It was a long night of wine and intoxication and it passed so quickly. Ah, how I loved her.

What happens now? Where does my quixotic journey of love take me after a night of intoxication which I cannot remember? Where does Dionysus promise to take me as I follow him, drink after drink, gulp after gulp. What happens next after I’m drunk on his red wine? Did I kiss her lips, divine? I know.

He takes me to orderly Apollo, his arch enemy, his nemesis. Apollo drains the wine out of me while playing on his golden gay lyre, prophesising my orderly death. My wine flows and the thunder in my mind rages, neither in hatred nor in grief; a rage of a more profound spectre upon the soul. The rage of abruption. Abruption leaves you silent with no clues, no knowledge of what happened or what went wrong. Abruption is someone slitting your throat, abruption is a cyanide pill. Dionysus ruined my Apollonian memories and I am left with nothing but fake embellishments which leave me castrated, stoned and rotted with yellow mould like an ancient, forgotten, originally-white marble statue. I am a petrified statue aiming at a confessional mime which I shall never be able to utter or communicate.

…all this while, I thought I was describing the hell of a writer.


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