You are enveloped in the comfort of your bed; the ebbs and flows of a neon-pink vision dance in the darkness behind your closed eyes. How this color subtly flutters within your thoughts, almost imperceptibly, is beyond your cognition. It should symbolize fun moments, pleasant things, exquisite modernity, and a feminine touch. Are butterflies neon pink? Don't they spread their wide wings and appear like bright petals in mental imagery? It turns out, the neon pink glow emanating from the bedside table was responsible for casting the room in a mesmerizing iridescence.
It's five am, the moonlight filters through the curtains. The morning breeze feels wonderfully cool, just as it ought to. Normally, you do not need an alarm. Your sleep flow is like a tidal pattern, and the body instinctively senses the tide change in sleep. On this particular day, the eyelids droop heavily, the back aches, and you try to recall parts of the vivid hue that soaked you in a wet dream.
You want to eject out of bed like a videotape, which is then tenderly encased and stored for a nostalgic replay. But you are human, this time around, too groggy, too sore. You are not used to this, the visual puns and metaphor. A defeatist mindset leaves a desire to continue hugging the warm and soft duvet and imbue a sense of rest, curled up as happy as a cat snuggling. The mind is slow and turns leisurely like a beautiful carousel between the moments of sleep and wakefulness. It gradually shifts gears, from first to second then to a gentle third. There is no launch control to thrust you into swift action.
This is the day you wake up and suddenly the creators block attacks akin to the force of a Spartacan spear. You toss and turn in bed and ponder what to scribe, but the artiste in you, born to defeat the forces of malevolent dullness with the sword of sensual creativity, fails in connotations. As a living thing, you want to scamper and scramble out of this fantastic cemetery with bits of skeletons and skulls pulling you invisibly as if in a horror movie. This is the day you wake up with a shuddering yawn. You lazily switch on the lights and an apprehensive moment ensues. It was meant to be a typical day, filled with the usual playfulness and energy, yet somehow inspiration seemed elusive, hiding just out of reach.
It feels quiet at first, then you hear the whispers of the wind awakening the world, and the vicious hiss out of nowhere creates a careless bliss. This is a paradise for those who have known hard times. This is the city of rootless survival and restless vile. It struggles to keep desperate folks from jumping to their deaths from the top of unguarded apartments that kiss the polluted skyline. It kills ambitions and creates a night that is full of light. Soon, sunshine will maul darkness and violently scatter the moon's reflection. A day like this should feel fresh like chopped liver and peaceful like a priest at the altar.
Gathering the little meaningful effort you have, you draw aside one curtain, open the wide window, and look out across to see nothing but a concrete jungle. Unusual as it is, you strip off the pajamas, go to the bathroom, and stand naked under the cold shower for a few minutes. This is to invigorate the peptic glide, to awaken the sluggish rhythm of life within. Afterward, you clean your teeth and gargle the sharp mouthwash to get rid of the unpleasant taste of the night from your mouth. An hour later, you are still in your seat, mulling about what to compose. You have reached a tacit kibosh. Even if you try to come up with incidental or indecorous images that imprint themselves scaldingly on the mind's eye, the ruin is yonder. It is a time to undergo the process of a “cleansing breath.”
Efforts to think clearly, express meaning, and join the journey of discovery, seem futile. Upon reviewing the initial pedagogy of your script, there is an urge to consign it into flames, incinerate it to ashes, and banish it from existence. Nothingness lingers in the mind. Impossible it is to ripple into action again. With the incredible refusal of inertia, you put your nose to the grindstone, but risk confusing yourself with a fatal flow. What could have been left to rest turns into gibberish. A nervous giggle rents the air and pierces the cozy silence, “Poor Anan, come back to bed.” It's the dystopian voice of a lady. Reverberating and giving the illusion that her thighs will offer the solution to your sere and emphatic struggle to improve your prose in a flash.
“This will be a page-turner that lures you into the contours of asphyxiation. Trust the process and let the world take its course.” You self console. You want to heed her advice. It's like a cliffhanger that leaves you contemplating. Should I go back and savor the warmth of the bed and a seductive and sensuous temptress, or should I just brave the situation and resist the temptation of fleeting pleasure? As always, the flesh is weak. When faced with a choice between two divergent paths, it's human nature to opt for the path that is familiar and promises an instant reward.
Hasta La Vista, Baby.
