Ave Maria

I tapped my fingers on the table rhythmically.

Did I have to put the adverb “rhythmically,” so that you can understand what I’m doing?

Maybe. Because if I only said: “I tapped my fingers on the table,” then you’d literally imagine fingers tapping on the table, but not necessarily rhythmic.

Hmm.

I stopped tapping. I began drumming. Same words, different meaning.

I looked at my laptop, glossed by the window’s reflection.

When I was tapping my fingers, I also had my hand resting on my cheeks.

The typical bored expression.

Head slightly tilted, eyes droopy.

Hunched shoulders.

Lips flattened.

An expression on the verge of sighing.

But I didn’t sigh just yet.

I looked at the window.

A young tree.

A patch of field.

A big house on the left, nearby.

Houses in the distance, front and right.

Another young tree over there.

A house for chickens.

It might sound like I’m living in a provincial town, but I’m actually living in a subdivision.

Most people would look at the window for no reason. Or they would look at the window to daydream some ideas. I don’t do that; I’m the former.

I looked at the window for no reason.

Or maybe there’s a reason.

I wanted to observe the world—probably.

The windows can be quite annoying when the sun shows up. My laptop’s screen glosses too much that I couldn’t see it. The rays prickle my skin.

But I would just pull the blankets in—I’m sorry, I mean curtains.

When the clouds uncovered the sun, I pulled the curtains together.

Much better.

All I see is my laptop and my mouse, connected to its USB.

If you’re wondering what I’m doing with my laptop, I’m writing.

I’m writing my novel that makes no sense—over time. I’d say over time because maturity destroys my passion.

You’re no doubt more matured than you were yesterday. The way you think, the way you act, changes a little bit, too, every day.

That would mean if I wrote my novel for a month, I would cringe if I look back into the first chapters again.

That also goes the same for journaling. You were quite different back then.

Maturity keeps me from finishing my novel.

It destroys me—no, my novel. Maturity helps me grow as a person, but it just doesn’t work for my stories at all.

If I keep getting matured, I wouldn’t be able to finish anything. It’s an illusion where you can only write good stories if you’re matured enough.

That’s why I’m just going to write short stories instead to escape from my novel.

Productive procrastination, indeed.

But maybe there’s no such thing as maturity.

I mean—you would always hear from old people that they still feel like a kid inside.

Maybe there’s only biological maturity. Mental or spiritual maturity isn’t real.

You just know more, that’s all. Know more than you knew yesterday. Which can be a recipe for disaster for your novels.

A neverending loop of repeating a book over and over—no, I don’t need to say “over and over again”—I’d already said “a neverending loop.”

Don’t sigh just yet.

I pushed the curtains aside and it was raining.

Hmm.

It was all sunshine and happiness, then it suddenly (suddenly can be redundant, huh) rained.

It rained.

The clouds cried.

Had climate change worsened so much that it bucketed down without a warning?

People tend to relate rainy days to sadness.

Sunny days to happiness.

Cloudy days to peace.

Stormy days to anger.

But.

Some people love rainy days. They see rainy days as happiness.

Some see sunny days as depression.

Some see stormy days as an unusual peace.

There are all kinds of people out there. If you ask for my preference about the weather, I would say it’s a windy day. I just love the breeze.

Windy days tend to be melancholic for me, especially when my hair dances along with the wind.

Unfortunately, I’m bald, so no chances of relishing that melancholy.

You would often see photos of the sun smiling. Because it’s shining bright, right?

But why is it that some people still hate the sun? Is it because it’s too happy?

Because they couldn’t relate to its happiness? That when you get near to it, you might burn—no, of course, you’ll definitely get burned.

I hate the sun too. I only like the sun when it doesn’t shine too much.

The same goes for the rain—when it doesn’t pour down too much.

Not too happy.

Not too sad.

Both can be annoying for me.

…

I’m not trying to refer to people, though…

I looked at the window again and it was snowing.

I thought it was natural, but when I thought deeper of it, our country doesn’t snow.

I stuck out my hand through the window to feel the cold.

I pulled back, observed my hand, and nothing happened. It’s still my hand.

I’m just testing if it’s really snowing. But it kinda felt cold, so it was really snowing.

It’s really (stop using the word “really” too much)—sorry. It’s amazing how there are all kinds of weather and seasons; it’s like they’re all created so that people can have their preferences on each of those.

Whether you like it cold or hot, sunny or rainy, stormy or cloudy.

I prefer it cold.

I love the rain. I love the cold.

I love the rain and cold.

I just can’t appreciate the sun.

Since I told you now that I’m into the rain, it doesn’t mean I drink some hot cocoa or coffee along with it while reading a book near the window—a kind of fetish where you’re obsessed with coziness; a sweatshirt, and a fireplace.

Anyway.

I looked at the window again.

And it was black.

All black.

Strange. I thought it would accord to the seasons and weather, but the world just went black.

A world without the sun.

I stood and observed.

Left and right—I couldn’t see anything.

It wasn’t even space. It was more like the void.

The darkness itself.

I scratched my head.

A deafening silence, no chirping birds, no cuckooing chickens.

What kind of weather is this?

It’s pure nothingness.

Is this what happens that when the happiest person on earth becomes depressed?

Happiness is contagious, they say.

When you see a happy person, you’re also happy.

When they’re sad, you’re also sad—but that only happens when you don’t hold a grudge against them.

Some would feel happy if they’re sad. Sad if they’re happy.

Some hate the sun, some hate the rain.

My family doesn’t want to see me crying.

My enemies don’t want to see me smiling.

Maybe I just hate it when other people are smiling.

I couldn’t relate.

Is there someone who can enjoy this blackness?

Maybe. But I don’t.

Too much for my taste.

I sighed.

I’d been suppressing my sigh all this time.

I closed my eyes for a moment, fingers on the keyboard.

I opened them and began typing.

I just typed without thinking.

I was avoiding semi-colons and em-dashes.

I wrote what I could write.

I realized that thinking wouldn’t get me to write.

Only writing gets you to write. Not thinking.

Of course, it’s impossible not to think about it at all. “Not thinking” is just a fancy solution for writers who are stuck with their stories. But in the end, they still think anyway.

I’m neither matured yesterday or today.

I’m still me from life to death.

Age isn’t an excuse to avoid writing stories.

Just because you’re eighteen, doesn’t mean you have no right to write a realistic story since it contains all the adult stuff, right?

The legal stuff. The marriage stuff. The laws stuff. The news stuff.

Mostly political, mostly societal.

It’s hard to write a realistic story if you’re not old enough, sure—but.

That’s still a big but.

Experiences do matter when it comes to writing.

It’s easier to write if you’ve already experienced it.

But maybe…maybe that’s the point of imagination.

The beauty of imagination is that you pretend you’ve experienced the things you haven’t experienced—or will never experience.

So I looked at the window.

It was sunny again.

I squinted my eyes.

Annoyance emerged.

I stood, looked outward.

Chirping birds.

The chickens were quiet, though.

A young tree.

Houses over here, over there.

I pulled the curtains together.

It was reflecting my laptop’s screen too much.

I sat. Looked at my laptop.

I eyed what I’d written, narrowing my eyes, moving them left to right, and back again.

Hmm…it seems good.

But I shouldn’t say that now because if I reread this next month, I would cringe at it again.

I smiled.

It’s neverending.

When the laptop fell in screen saver mode, I saw myself on the screen.

I have hair now.

A mustache.

A beard.

I looked at myself closely, touching my facial hair.

It wasn’t that I grew old. My hair just grew on its own.

I decided to stop writing for now, so I flapped my laptop close.

I sat in meditation.

The thought of pushing the curtains aside kept distracting me.

I pushed the curtains aside and—

It was still sunny.

…

I climbed downstairs and went outside.

You know that pain where it’s almost impossible to open your eyes normally?

The sun was shining too bright—dammit.

A few moments ago, the world was all black—but now.

But now the skies were glimmering—too much.

Too much, and they were making me—

They were making me sad.

The type of sadness where you realize something important.

But that thought hadn’t crossed my mind just yet.

I hadn’t realized it yet.

Not yet.

…

I was sweating.

So I returned inside, doffed my clothes, took a cold shower, and donned my clothes.

Never felt this fresh.

I climbed upstairs.

Sat. Looked at my laptop.

Looked at the window, curtains closed.

I slowly opened the curtains.

Just a little bit.

Just a little so that the rays don’t enter wholly.

Just a bit of sunshine.

Just a bit of sunshine will do.

Sun pouring gold over my right shoulder, over my right cheek and ear.

I opened my laptop.

Opened my novel’s document.

And began writing.

And after writing.

I looked at the window.

It was now rainy.