They say, when you're a (real) reader, you can make a bookmark out of anything--an old receipt, a leaf (an achievement in itelf if it's still sort of green by the time you finish the book), a strand of hair longer than the book; otherwise, it will be a challenge to find, and actual bookmark, regardless if it's all worn out or still in its plastic wrapper; or as the internet have shown, you can also use your sleeping dog's tail or your entire cat's docile and overfed body whenever you're in need of a quick potty break in between chapters.

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However, does it go the same as when one is a "real" writer? Is one able to write anywhere, on anything, at any given time? As for myself, I think, since I have lived, at least, half of my life inside my head, and tended to internalize things too much, that whenever I wanted to write anything down, I cannot seem to form any proper sentences the moment my ballpoint hits the paper. It's like I have a chisel and hammer in my hands, that by the time I've made-out a decent-enough sentence--let alone, a paragraph--I'm so drained from chiselling away my overthinking, that I feel like the idea or story has become stale and lifeless--in other words: useless.

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Though, the moment I close my eyes and my head hits my pillow or I stare into nothingness, my thoughts begin to wander and most certainly find a path which eventually lead them to an interesting world. Some are good, some are not-so-good, and I can even venture to say that most are bad to worse; but all the same, without any predictable beginning nor end, they are "interesting". They are entertaining enough for me that it's like wanting to tell a friend about the latest episode of a favourite TV that they don't watch or no plans of watching--no matter how many times I try to convince them.

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After joining a few online and in-class caretive writing courses, and even purchasing a "Master Class" episode with Neil Gaiman, try as I might, inspiration literally would not escape me--whether it's on a beautiful leather-bound journal, a large yellow pad (as Mr. Gaiman prefers), or on my latest Macbook Air--my river of free-flowing thoughts instantly becomes a beaver-dammed rocky bed the moment I try to translate my somewhat alien thoughts into corporeality.

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To be fair, I haven't tried using a traditional typewriter, and wil never do so again. I've acquired a "type" of PTSD (Post-Typewriting/Typewriter Stress Disorder) from when I was a child. During one of my father's secretary's lunch breaks, I had asked her permission to use the office typewriter--and mind you, it wasn't the electric ones yet either--but the chunky ones as heavy as my childhood torso. I also knew whenever the ink ribbons were just replaced (usually by the end of the month) and to what colour; because her fingers would still have a faint stain of black, blue, or (not too often) red. However, the constant stain she had was white--from the liquid eraser she would have to use every four lines or so, on account of how the metal types would stick and leavea print of an unwanted "Q" or "A", especially when she would get carried away or is on a deadline, and cannot pace her typing speed. Despite of everything, I do admit that there is nothing more satisfying than hearing those, metaphorically, punch-drunk clicks.

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Needless to say, and without further digression, after I was done with it, she had to replace an entire spool of ribbon at the first week of that month, also had to cold-compress and ribbon-up my tiny red fingers. They kept slipping in between the keys, and by the typing tempo I wanted to replicate, pulling them up only meant them getting sometimes stuck beneath the hollow and individually raised hard plastic keypads.

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It wasn't until my one rare night-out with former co-workers that I semi-met this woman at the sktytrain platform. I say "semi" because she was so intoxicated that she was practically barely even there. It was not that late and I still wanted to enjoy the last few warmer nights before winter season, that I decided to try and help out this carefree stranger.

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"Hi. Are you okay? Do you want any help?" I had to cock my head down a tad underneath her bowed head and drapingly long black hair.

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At its side part, I could see her eyes were closed and her cheeks most crimson in contrast with her really fair skin. Her long eyelashes flickered to life, and as a woman myself, I could tell they were not fake, and admired their really fine and feather-like quality. No traces of glue or any potruding magnetic clip.

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"Huh? What?" Startling her a little but not scared, her voice was soft but hoarse.

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I could immediately smell the alcohol in her breath, but surprisingly, it wasn't disgusting or vomitous. It smelt of strawberries or peach. She squinted and tried straightening her head as best she could.

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"Who are you?"

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"Oh, I'm nobody."

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"Are you one of his friends at the club party?" She audibly unhaled as if she was trying to hold a coversation while jogging.

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"Y-yes," I lied. "Who are you?"

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"I'mm...mmhhmm...Mo...ona," she limply held out her left hand. It felt clammy and very soft. It reminded me when I held my best friend's baby hands just right after being wrapped in his bath towel.

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"Well, Mona--"

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"No!" She cocked her head and furrowed her brow. She looked at me with her dark brown eyes--not with anger as much as slight irritation caused by being uninhibited. "It's not Moe-nah, it's Moo-nah. M-U-N-A."

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"Oh, sorry. I was just--"

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"It means 'for now' and a bunch of other stuff," she waved her hand dismissiely and used the same hand to comb back her hair to be able to look at the screen when she heard her train was arriving at any moment. The same one I was taking.

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"I see. That's an interesting name, Muna. Look, obviously you're quite drunk. No disrespect, whatsoever, and I know we just met--"

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"No," she cocked her head to the side with still sleepy eyes," we met at the club. You're such a good dancer!" She took both my hands and playfully swung them up and down, then suddenly twirled herself around my arm-. Which, thankfully, at this point, the train had already stopped behind us for a few seconds, and before the doors slid open, I had something to lean on. Otherwise, the newspaper headlines tomorrow would have read: "Two drunk girls mauled by train!" Instead of "One".

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"Right. Alright. That's it. I'm helping you home," I said, exasperated; but mostly with myself, because yet again, I couldn't mind my own business. I wrapped her arm around my shoulders, and even though she was much taller than I was, she wasn't that heavy. I found two adjoining seats at the end of the traincar and had probably asked her thrice before she was able to give me a clear enough answer to which station we had to stop. It was two stops after mine, but I was in too deep now to abandon train, and had resolved to see her safely home.

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"Ugh. I feel hot," she said, and proceeded to haphazardly take off her black wool trench coat, revealing that she only had a white sleeveless shirt on. (Are they still called "wife-beaters" if they're for women? But of course, it's highly inappropriate--even though historically accurate--to be even named like that anymore.)

 

According to Google Maps, the entire trip--not including my way back--would be more or less an hour. Amazingly, in spite her being somewhat uncoordinated, her cellphone with her transit card attached to its back, is like a mouse pad glue to her hand. Honestly, I can barely remember the feeling of my childhood before the cellphone and non dial-up internet, as oppose to now--not even being able to remember my only-living parent's phone number or how I wouldn't even be able to pay for a bottle of water if I had forgotten--or God-forbid--had lost my cellphone.

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With her head leaning on my shoulder, her hair smelt like vanilla. It is one of the few smells of society wich I could stand. It was mild and delectable. On occasion, her knee's hypnic-jerk would hit my own, and I don't know if it was because her overall sweet and literally intoxicating smell, the rhythmic jiggle of the train, or the strange randomness of life's moment sometimes (if you let it), but I felt a strong urge to write. If you've never heard the dancing plague story of France, look it up. If what I felt was antyhing akin to something, I surmise, it was that. I carefully rummaged through my purse, but to my disappointment, I remembered deciding to leave my notebook at home because my I dind't want to carry my usually tote bag to the pub; and realistically, when will I ever be able to write then?. Surpisingly, my hand had grasped something adjacent to something I was looking for--my fine point marker--but where to write?

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Where to write and put these insatiable thoughts to rest? Like an uncoordinated drummer, I started fidgeting the pen while I thought: "I most certainly will not vandalize a government property--but I could vandalize my own property! Alas, as a semi-retired goth, my clothes shirt to bottom would render my ink essentially invisible." That's when I started writing on my free hand and arm--even overlapping my tattoos. Thankfully, they were not all black ink. The word "the" especially looked vibrand with a raimbhow leaf as its background. When my arm already looked as if I were a witch who absorbed the words for a spell straight out of a black magic book, I took the pen with my left hand (my original or dominant hand by birth, until my mother told me that it will be hard being left-handed in a right-handed world, and so proceeded to switch it by tutoring me with my alphabet and cursive workbooks with a switch in her hand) and gingerly started to write on my right hand and forearm. I couldn't go higher as my upper arm was obstructed by this fair-skinned stranger's head and hair.

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"Don't do it," I whispered to myself, "don't you dare do it, you psycho." However, as I have historically proven, I am the type who needs to fuck around to find out; and so, after a few bouts with my weak-minded self, and rationalising as if I was the drunkest person inside the train, I couldn't begin to tell you how artistically striking the black ink looked on Muna's--

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Wait. Hold up. WAIT. What the actual fuck? How can I write such a thing? How did I write this? Fuck! I cannot believe I've caught myself writing some "version" of rape! Unintenional yet still as gross! This stands against everything I'm aiming not to be and believe in. Not only am I a pseudo writer, but a pseudo feminist as well? Am I? Apparently!

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How did I end up with this age-old disgusting equation: drunk girl + unconscious = violating her property without consent!!!

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Unbelievable. How sexism, the patriarchy, and sexualism has ultimately and systematically ingrained itself in me. This is why I cannot write. This is why I DO NOT write. No matter how sweet the beginning or end I'm planning (semi-planning) to write, that middle act alone ruins everything! There will be no going back from my overthinking after having written that! Oh, gosh.

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What now? Tama na muna!

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P.S. Aside from everything, even Muna's character's first words were a majority of "No's". Yikes. I'm out.

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- THE END -