The World, The World

I am not very productive these days. I have been trying to finish a book review, a story, and in the middle of these are problems arising everywhere: from text messages to a confidant who happened to have problems as well. An officemate told me it's best to do monologues in these times, the way my father does as he climbs his way up to sixty. I hate to say this but at this point in my life, I do have a black garbage bag on my chest.  It's not that heavy, but it drips something foul-smelling. In a bus I thought of writing a story about dealing with a punishment which costs a character to live a year of his life on repeat. That would be 365 days, from the moment he arrives at the bus stop in the morning up to the point where he/she thinks about this puppy he/she used to own, which he/she fondly calls Lucky, who has this penchant of watching fireworks at New Year's Eve when every other dog had been trying to squish themselves in corners. I tried thinking of what my character will do in 365 days when the two of us, the character and I, would realize that the next day is just the same. Then I asked myself what kind of escape is that, when everyone is on to something to dominate the world, like buying this island or doing memes? In my dream I was with an officemate and I did some pole-vaulting tricks and used the same pole as a javelin to kill people in such bloodless but violent ways. My officemate owned a shotgun of some sort, and we were killing people. I feel like I'm writing like a sixteen year-old again, naming a blog something like "the rants and raves of a sixteen year-old", trying to think of college and all that stuff like dorms and independence and chatmates from Cavite whom I've promised to treat to Beard Papa (which I have never heard of back then). Later, I will be reading another problem in the form of an e-mail, and if I could only enumerate each of these problems and send the list to people whom I am indebted to meet, serve, or talk to, I hope they will understand and tell me, sure, some other time. But of course, they'll say I'm ridiculous, everybody has problems. If there's one thing I lack in life, it's the part where I have this confidant/e to talk to and tell him/her about everything, and maybe if I feel like I'm in a movie I'll be treating him/her to a beer, but I don't like beer. I'm craving for a Goldilocks chocolate roll. I'm gregarious, sure, I can pitch in a joke or two even when I'm this close to thinking about, if not suicide, then at least non-productivity, chaos (tossing books, throwing them outside the window), absences in the form of calls from my boss or a knock on the door and my sixty year-old father would tell me, what now? Well, I would say, and thank the movies for these kinds of scenes it has ingrained these lines in my mind: I don't know, I don't know. My father has been buying books about adventure, about the great outdoors, and yesterday he bought another one entitled The World, The World, and it was such a good title I think one should say this like a mantra in the morning, or a sort of a prayer. So today, I have ten problems all at the same time, and I should say, the world, the world.