Written amidst childish screams

“So, what did you do before you came to the States?”

I always tell people that I’m a writer. But judging by the situation of late, I may be lying.

I’m no writer. I’m Having Written.

The distinction between the two? The former is haunted by deadlines, while the latter is just haunted – by the past and all its glories.

Not that I wrote anything particularly glorious. But like all haunted beings we cling on to whatever sliver of the bygones we can find.

I have no time to write. I tell myself that, in the hope that a full schedule can occupy the emptiness of my pages. Who has time to write when you’re so busy living? I didn’t travel all the way to the States to hole in my room and slouch in front of the computer.

Or so I told myself, while the hollowness within my heart spreads and spreads.

The truth is, I have no time to think. I jam-packed my life, not willing to slow down for the fear that every moment unlived is a moment wasted. I have done, see, feel and do so many new things for the past few weeks, but I did not take my time to chew at them and savour their succulence.

I’m a gobbler. I did not digest. Perhaps that is why I don’t feel fulfilled, just stuffed – like a toy with cotton for brains.

I read a line somewhere – Never give up on something that you can't go a day without thinking about (yeah it took me a while to figure out this triple-negative sentence, but it’s just as well because now it is ingrained in my head).

I need to keep writing. Chapter 23 needs meaningful prose, not unintelligible scribbles.