Sunday, January 17, 2010

The Witching Hour

The last time I've held a brush was three or four months ago. I've been planning to resume my painting this weekend, and start working on the new journal notebook I got from CoffeeBean(after spending more than a thousand bucks for great coffee which is equivalent to 14 stamps needed for claiming the journal). I was planning to turn it into an illustrated haiku notebook filled with, of course, haikus--a kind of a haiku train where the first line of the following haiku begins with the last line of the previous. 
But alas! It's already early Monday morning and I've accomplished neither! I was even planning to relax at the mall yesterday by watching Avatar and Sherlock Holmes, yet I ended up staying at home, playing blasted pc games, and napping for hours on end. Well, aside from these non-productive activities, however, I was able to do something a bit productive--cook chili chicken for lunch?
I can't seem to snap out of this lethargic mood as easily as I want to.The year has just begun and I'm feeling a bit tied and tired already. I shouldn't. By the way, my big mouth was at it again. I have casually mentioned to our officer that I was blogging about the office, and she threw me that negatively alert expression, which I found both amusing and dreadful at the same time. 

Unlike our former colleague, who had really bad-mouthed our bosses to the point of wishing them dead and mentioned the name of the company, I am considerably more subtle, careful, and objective. I only ranted about the uncertainty that we're facing right now due to the current financial constraints. I also voiced out my stress over slackers--colleagues who cheat not only on the company but also on their fellow colleagues by shirking responsibilities whenever they could. I don't suffer sloths and fools gladly. Having people like these around really gets on my nerves at one time or another, depending on how much and for how long I could force myself  to pretend being blind to them.  Yet on top of it all, I never once made mention of a single person's name, let alone the name of our beloved(yeah, right) company from which we get our bread and butter. 
I'm not sure why I had to hint at it. Maybe I want her to know what's going through my head, in the hope that she might be able to do something to address the issue. After all, she's our immediate superior, isn't she? Now that I've started discussing office matters again, certain issues regarding my work performance and the task itself have surfaced once more. 
I've always been scrupulous in doing my job. My desire for literary excellence compels me to put my best foot forward in every single piece of writing I work on. Although there were times when I really feel like puking as soon as my fingers touch the keyboard, I managed to pull through nevertheless, submitting my work on time and without so much as the slightest complaint. I am well aware that there are other writers who are better and far more experienced than me; however, I never give up too easily. Nope. I still have to push further into the limits of my potential. And despite the occasional lethargy, my objectives remain intact. 
But I still can't get the nagging feeling that I am unappreciated. They keep saying that my works are too wordy in spite of my efforts to shorten it or make it more concise. From the way I see it, I've already improved. If long or loosely written sentences is what they imply by "wordy," then they are technically wrong. Wordy is a technical term in writing used for sentences whereby the meaning becomes redundant due to repeated words or additional phrases used implying the same meaning. These are squeezed into the same sentence or in a follow up in the same paragraph. When it comes to writing, drone writers are never permissible to begin with. If we're to write in the exact same style as one another, then how could we possibly produce the best works? The advantages of having a team of writers is the differing styles which allow them to present ideas from varying angles using virtually  the same set of given information. These angles allow more diversity and possibility, giving the creative edge and twist needed to meet variegated demands.
I don't want to discuss this anymore. I'm just going to continue practising and honing my ability. Bend, twist, and break if I must, I really don't give a shit so long as it's for the sake of excellence. Even if I've long resigned myself to the truth that the journey towards fulfilling my dream is a fucking hard one, I'm still not immune to the rejection and lethargy. And these I stumble upon from time to time(good Lord). 
Sometimes, I think that my positivism is just a farce. A foolish show of bravado in an attempt to mask the underlying depression and insanity beneath. But I don't see myself being given any other choice. A few years back, I've realized that there is no such thing as a middle ground in life. Neutrality is just as good as deciding against taking the righteous path.  Maybe is nil. There are actually only two viable choices: "yes" and "no." And each one corresponds accordingly to choosing between living(yes) or dying(no). 
And I have chosen to live because I have something to live for: to share myself with the world. 
If psychology had been popular in my culture, I would not be the least bit surprised if I'm diagnosed as manic depressive-- the uncontrollable high that drove me to paint and write poems or whatever unrelentingly during many a sleepless night, the burning desire to create without so much as a thought about time or appearances, and the vivid dreams whose details haunt me long after I have waken. All these eccentric tendencies, which I desperately tried to keep secret, made for quite a confusing yet interesting mix along with that insatiable desire to forge on and on and on--a mad energizer bunny running high on emotions. 
Ever since, I have defined that burning fire that drives me to do as I should, as a voice far more powerful than anything that it simply can't be dismissed no matter how hard I try. When it hits, it does so without a thought or care about anything and everything. Like a raging bull, it just charges, rams, and tramples on anything that gets in its way. It just possesses me. And when it does, I gladly let it, knowing and believing that it is the hand of God at work in me. 
Fortunately, the magnanimity of my God-given talents did not go unnoticed. Even if I have yet to be fully appreciated by the eternal stranger whose heart has always been beyond my reach, my old man, I've already been accoladed by other people, artists and non-artists alike. Yet  through it all, I am still dissatisfied. It wasn't too long ago, after having immersed myself in the corporate environment where supposedly sane, normal people thrive, that I realized how low this fire has been burning in me. 
However, these days, I don't think I'm doing enough to make it burn higher and more brightly as it used to. Have I achieved some kind of normalcy? I don't think so. But nevertheless my passion and drive is burning low. It would never die and is not on the verge of dying, but it's burning low. 
I know I can't go on like this lest I change my mind and decide to just get swallowed up by the void, the drone-like existence(need I say intellectually numbing?) prevailing in reality. Nope. Never. I still choose to live. And to do that, I must find a way to get that fire burning high again. 

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