This exercise called 'The Self as Memory, or vice versa' by Joseph O.Legaspi is a free-write exercise which had me squirming in my seat when I first read it. But I went on to do it. By the end of it I realized the best part about free writing is, you don't have to care a damn about if anybody gets it or not. It's liberating, just like Joseph said.
8th September, '09
Thunder sounds like drums in the skies, pitter-patter, pitter-patter on the asbestos roof, the lovely intoxicating smell of rain on earth. I feel one with the earth, the heavens and myself. A rainwater stream flowing, twisting turning, bubbling with all the excitement I feel. Tearing paper from old notebooks, grandpa making me paper boats, to float, to play with, to drown. A rush. A strange happy rush. Hands smelling of wet paper, the lines all merging into one, leaving odours of life on my palms. Running in the streets barefooted, sometimes with rubber chappals, losing one along the way, breaking away from jail, a room with a lone streak of light, floating into my heart. Boats being pushed, pulled, stopped, repaired, discarded for better; Just like human beings themselves. All the lines fall one over another, jumble, twisting like worms which've suddenly found life. Flowing in the water to make beautiful patterns, a whole new water-world. Freedom on a wet rainy afternoon.
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Awaken myself. Struggle, kick, bite claw into my own skin. It's part of my skin. Or so I keep telling myself. Why hold pain so tenderly in my palms? Sleep some more. Deeper, deeper. Walking through brush, and bramble. A dark, hot forest. Not cool like the ones I've visited when I'm awake. Stifling. Let go of me. Bag of salt on my back. Cool moonlight, wet green grass. A fine night for dying this is. And I died. Sparkling branches of some unknown trees, whispering nothingness. A light visible from far away, brighter by the minute. Fog descends upon us, me and the nothingness. A creature of light bounding towards me, full of light, smiling, toothless smile, through the fog. Am I in a Lord of the Rings sequel? Puts it's horn on my throat, and I laugh a guttural, mirthful laugh. A strange feeling of satisfaction. Floating above the world on the creature's horn. Being tickled by its beautiful, frisky tail. It smiles its smile again and pushes a little harder. A horn in my windpipe. A smile on my lips. A lightness in my heart. It is a fine night for dying, again.
