nightmare

My greatest nightmare is to face a blank computer screen, my brain desiring so much to write something, but not finding the right words to articulate my thoughts. That’s exactly what has been happening to me lately. Like a bodybuilder whose muscles have bred ennui because of the same boring routine, I sit here, deliriously mad with ideas, not knowing how to etch them on my computer. Sure, I’ve had times when I simply rambled on aimlessly. But this time, it’s different. The mind yearns for intercourse, for rhythmic undulations of quivering bodies, for cautious explorations of crevices marinated in sweat, saliva, and other body fluids, and finally, for an ecstatic release, to squirt its creamy load in liberation, feeling the sudden mad rush of guilt, passion, love, pain, and ambivalence all shooting rapidly up the temples, into the dendrites, around the cranium, through a labyrinth of neurons, and then bursting out of the ears like dislodged ear wax. How can one contain something like this? How does one manage to live while harboring a raging monster inside, shackled, as it were, by the chains of inarticulateness? Would that my mind be as prolific as my butt which does not need any provocation to fart out its sentiments for the whole world to get a whiff of.

Time can be as tricky as a philandering lover. One moment, it makes you feel that you own your faculties, the next moment, it slams you with the realization that you are nothing but a pulpy blob, shaking stupidly like a slice of jello. Or it might fool you into believing that you have something to say, when in fact you are merely brewing mush, some ill-conceived, half-baked, better-left-unsaid ideas that you thought once glimmered with ingenuity. What is ingenuity, after all, but a rehashed idea of another repackaged to look more enticing to modern sensibilities? What can be said that has never been said before? Ideas are only exhumed from the bowels of putrefaction. With the mass of intellectual protons already swimming about in the air, it is too presumptuous to think that I can still contribute anything, that my unarticulated thoughts would push humanity onwards, heal our society, and guarantee world peace, I thank you. Those idiotic beauty queens wishing for world peace may have something more valuable to say. At least, they don’t mask their thoughts with pretentious language. That’s just that. No frills. No confusing rhetoric. No winding locutions. No blogs to eat up precious bandwidth. No ideas, just borrowed spiels from those who wore the crown before them. No shackled monsters. No thoughts. No gods. No empty computer screens to fill with nonsense. Just a tabula rasa.

Blank.

Empty.

Like this nightmare.