Anachronistic ideation

Some writers draw their inspiration from the world around them. Nature provides them a calm  beyond understanding. Some find their symphonies in the beauty of natural disasters and the endless sky above us.

I find my restlessness in people. I find my frustrations and fascinations in strangers I analyse and forget. I watch them and something boils over in me. It incubates until I sicken or cough it out on a computer screen.

But for years, they’ve only been grey, vague ovals instead of faces. Then you stepped into my still-life portrait, and everything changed. My thoughts become ink and drip ceaselessly from my fingers, not because I want them to, but because I have to pick a road between expressing the chaos you raise in me, or alcoholism.

I’m not crazy about you, I’m crazy by way of you. Every milestone I’ve reached suddenly feels like a compromise. There’s more in me than this. My spirit will choke here if I become comfortable. You are simply a jarring reminder that I’m supposed to be more than this. I want to leave everything behind. I want to take a backpack with a laptop in into the wide world and work on something I care about – in poverty, if I have to.

I just wish I could get any of this across to you, after you’ve closed that door.

Translated from an Afrikaans piece I wrote:

Sommige skrywers trek hul inspirasie van die wereld rondom hulle. Die natuur verskaf aan hulle ‘n stilte wat verstand te bowe gaan. Sommiges vind hul simfonie in die skoonheid van natuur rampe en die grenslose lug bo ons.
Ek vind my onrus in mense. Ek vind my frustrasies en fasinasies in vreemdelinge wie ek ontleed en vergeet. Ek kyk na hulle en iets borrel oor in my. Dit inkubeer tot ek of sieklik word of dit uithoes op ‘n rekenaar skerm.
Maar vir jare lank was hulle grys, net vaal ovale waar gesigde moes wees. En toe tree jy in my stil lewe portret in. Jy verduidelik; jy word duideliker as enige van die vage figure rondom jou. En skielik verander alles. My gedagtes word ink en drup onophoudelik uit my vingers uit. Nie omdat ek lus is nie, maar omdat ek ‘n pad moet kies tussen die chaos wat jy in my na vore bring uit druk, of ‘n alkolis wees.
Ek is nie net mal oor jou nie: Ek is mal deur middel van jou. Elke mylpaal wat ek al gehaal het voel skielik soos ‘n kompromie. Daar’s meer in my as die. My gees sal hier verstuk as ek gemaklik raak. Jy is net ‘n rukkende herinnering dat ek veronderstel was om meer te wees as die. Ek wil alles wat ek het net agterlaat. Ek wil ‘n rugsak met ‘n laptop vat in die wye wereld in en net werk aan iets waaroor ek omgee, in armoede, as ek moet.
Ek wens net ek kon enige deel hiervan aan jou oordra nadat jy al klaar daai deur toe gemaak het.

Ek het te veel weergawes van jou al geprojekteer in verskillende verhoudings in.
Jy wat ‘n gedagte is wat in ‘n lyf ingeasem is.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s