The weekend began on friday, from morning till midnight that the only thing left to do when you reach home is to shed every piece of clothing and sleep on the floor. With each book sold, there is a sense of loss of the self and the memories associated with the book. There I was, at 3 am, half asleep and scrambling about books to be away from the already shrinking collection I have. One can only read so much. When Zikri asked why don’t I read or what makes me read, I just say I am no longer in the mood to read any kind of novel, unless there’s something to be sought in there. A fundamental truth, or to seek motivations or anything. That was and still is the primary reason to read, to seek relations or to do anything, really.
I could have seen this happening, really. I am tired of words, because they escape me most of times, and I would have to be so goddamned careful not to impose any meaning or an expression, whether it be gratitude or hate or simple amusement. But I hate making a move so calculated, I do not pour heart or even thought into most of what I do, precisely because I will always feel or be restricted whenever anyone chooses to see me. In the end, it’s best for everyone else if I stay quiet and shut myself up.
It’s always amazing to see how a poet reads out his piece, to understand the frame of mind, the mood, when writing. Heck, the very act of recording it in Vimoes or on a piece of paper, public is courageous. But those require belief and confidence in your own voice. I do not know how Aisyah does it, there is force and allure in her poetry that I smile at each page.
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