As we speak

Dear Tina,

This is nothing new to me--untouchable ennui lodged in my throat. But it grows steadily and becomes more and more difficult to ignore. Motivation is my sofa bed, a cadaver in mid-autopsy, the sole survivor of my well-to-do years. Time is kinder now but the future is an unpenetratable fog atop a sheer cliff. This morning, getting out of bed was harder than usual. Several proddings, speciously veiled threats, from my older brother eventually compelled me to get up and start the day. But during my morning coffee and cigarette breakfast, the half-breeds commenced their attack. One was taking a very public bath beside the well, which is located just below the window. The rest were on TV. My world gets smaller and smaller, and I have no choice but to go inward. Have I become a snob of collosal proportions or is it just that more and more people are evolving into abrasive and self-absorbed creatures? Why do I persist on a radical optimism of seeing the good in just about everyone yet wallow in the pessismism of a world going to hell in a hand basket?

Now, I shall again effect self-flagellation for my pell-mell, tumultuous chaotic style of writing. How this, as is my wont, will be a series of half-truths, verbal cleverness, and dangerous ideas expressed in specious and dexterous verbiage. Again, nothing new there. My letters would typically be incredibly short yet rambling, totally bereft of details, and are written entirely in the stream-of-consciousness rifts. Of course, I am fully aware how I sometimes come out rambling, an unbridled and confused outpouring of echolalea, tacking sentence after sentence ad infinitum. I just couldn't stop. Maybe I'm really afraid of clarity, not finding clarity in life. But I refuse to apologize for this anymore. My problems are as external and real as they are internal and rise out of weariness and disgust.

Ultimately, it's not the writing that I find myself apologizing for these days. It is that I'm just an average Juan who has amorphous mediocrity written all over Himself; a semi-competent fool who is as set in his neurosis as any could; and with brilliantly myopic eyes, proceeds to draw his own confusions, like Camus wrestling sanity and order from an absurd universe.

I have never really left the clouds. And on a clear night like this one, I'm nowhere. If only I didn't have to go back. So when do we really leave?

More importantly, whatever happened to Bubot? Rusting on our faux laurels, perhaps?