Why sigh? Why I write?
My answer is this: Because I am guilty. In what manner I am guilty? What kind of crime?
Let me put it this way: In Franz Kafka’s unfinished novel The Trial, a question is left to the reader. Is Josef K. guilty? (He was accused of an unknown crime and died in the end of the story without ever knowing what kind of crime he had committed.) Max Brod, Kafka’s biographer and best friend offered an answer: Josef K was guilty of being incapable to love.
Like Josef K. I am guilty of being incapable to love. But on the contrary I know my crime: I am guilty for loving literature above all. I know, John Galt, contradiction doesn’t exist. How can I love Literature if I am incapable to love? Let me explain this by experience. By experience I mean stories of my life with women.
Wisdom is like a cell phone snatcher. It always comes suddenly, rubbing you out for the abrupt elucidation. Last Sunday, after Manny Pacquiao was abducted by Tralmafadorians for the 2007 calendar porn star pictorial, it dawned on me that I am incapable to love outside literature.
I’m incapable to love outside literature? The truth is I never love any woman in my life. Being in love is being with literature. I can only manifest my deep affection with my beloved with loving the puddles of literature. I can only be with my beloved as I am deeply in love with literature. It is to write with them but not about them as it manifests my imagination. To write and to love is two things inseparable to me. To love only bathed with the lyrical scent of literature and tenderness of their breast, like two planets I have to conquer in my cup of double espresso universe. (That is why I never doubted why writers and artists are promiscuous in nature.)
Writing is to imagine the brazilin model Gisele Bundchen lying in my bed as I write verses in her most beautiful legs, as if her body is particle accelerator that triggers a wormhole and open a door where I can travel into the unknown side of poetry. It is only by my wildest imagination can I possess such beauty, not to mention the beautiful tragedy.
It is like loving a woman who will never arrive in your date, a letter by a virgin boy to his beloved upon his first discovery of eroticism, a cry of a woman who ditched by her boyfriend for another young lad, an unanswered prayer of a child to God, a doodle art while Elliot Smith or Aimee Mann hum in your room. It is an answer, it is sighing. It is love giving a beautiful sigh.
Writing is a sad, sad, sad, sad affair. It is being with Rilke whose beloved will never arrive. It is being with Neruda who wrote the most beautiful and saddest line in the
Above all, it is being with Kafka dating with Ingrid Bergman in the small town of poetry and imagination, a coffee date rendered in the palette of philosophical and erotic bedscape. Writing is sighing; it is called Philosophy of Sigh.
It is an answer to ambiguous love affair with Life and its lack of meaning. Writing is being faithful with life amidst the shitty experiences. It is to feel the humanity inside me.
Never mind if I drown again, I think of the distant sea, to qoute Kundera, as love conceived and yet to be born. I am guilty, I sigh; therefore I write.
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