In ever more prosaic ways I slip into a torpor. My life is a period of episodes of disquiet, not worth recounting in way, shape or form. My youth a series of illuminations, gone and perhaps never to return. C’est la vie. If it comes, it comes. I can’t wait for it happen, nor conjure them into appearance by mere desire.
I live in a place where there are palms and pandanus. A life slowly being eroded by a global culture of capitalism and consumerism, or pop culture stretching thousands of miles, eroding everything in comes in contact with, annihilating dialects and traditional mores beneath it’s waves. If I can, my last gasp will be to build my own house. Like Mr. Biswas, perhaps. I will record what it is to be born at the end; to come of age just to see the last edifices tumble like sandcastles on the beach. The house will be built of words, constructed of every last memory and image distilled into the most precise concentration. As I sip shochu and taste cigar smoke, so shall I try to choose my words. It’s all nonsense, maybe. But, before I die that death in a rented room, working that pointless job, I will say it. As much as possible, I will try to breath it out of my fingers and head. It’s all I am good for at this point; telling stories. I can’t live in the manner of others. Not anymore. God damned me. I’m a writer. Fuck my life, I’ve got words to say.