book project: blue is not a happy colour

Blue is not a happy colour, only the illusion of a reflection on the seablue

High up in the clouds, behind a fluff of white.

Blue is not a disease,

It’s a Russian novel.

Blue is not a happy colour

Because it breezes past your cheek

like it was never there

Blue is not a happy colour

because it leaves you behind,

feeling robbed. Railroaded.

So the decision to track it back to day one just came to me. Ignited by the need to claim my spirit back. The drama of my life unfolded here. Little did I know back then. Otherwise I would have made an effort of taking in the details. Now I am like that victim who had no clue that she would have to return on her own. And have to recall the journey on instinct. I had quit my job. Paused my life. Pondering what I wanted to be. I needed to be more than what I was becoming. Or at least afraid of becoming.

That smell hits my face. It is cold. A room with white tiles. Sparsely furnished. Saggy sofas arranged around the room that looks more like a public clinic lobby than someone’s home. My home. At least what used to be my home.

‘Papa’, I call out to him. There is no answer.

I drop my bags in the adjoining kitchen. It is spotless. All these plastic containers arranged all over the empty spaces.

I walk back towards his bedroom. There he is. Sleeping on his back. I can hear his shallow breathing sounds. Is he alive? I wonder. I inch closer to his bed. He still doesn’t move.

When did he start losing his mind?

living with the walking dead is not easy…

 the anxiety and stress has a way of seeping through…

 no matter how thick your caring skin may be..

 when it reaches the bones… deep down..

 you can’t help but pray for divine intervention…

 for a miracle…

 a permanent solution…

just write, right?

often when i have to write something (often with a hectic deadline) and words will choose that just writeexact moment to escape me.. ideas dodge my shadow.. i enter a room, they exit.

i brood over it. ponder it. count the hours. work out my days around this deadline. this looming thing. i write and scratch it out immediately.

sometimes, i clean my bedroom. hoping to bump into something that pokes something that will hopefully turn into an idea. i waste a LOT of time on the internet, looking at stuff. my own stuff, other people’s stuff. and still, nothing on my page.

so, what is a person to do in such a state?

i usually go back to the notes or words i have been collecting about said piece… write them down in no particular order. read them from the beginning. let whatever thoughts come to me fill up the spaces between those words. then i go back to reading it all again. add some more. then read it from the beginning again. listening for a pattern. that one thing that should be the introduction. i play air puzzle with it in my head. sooner or later, it comes. the order. the clincher. and when i read it from the beginning again. it makes sense. the way it should have been right from the start. usually, this takes less than 2 hours… while i would have wasted days procrastinating… fearing the blank page (and that looming deadline)….