Dysfunction

The writer and the general

'Just start writing' - I tell myself as my left leg bounces up and down, again and again. But I find it so hard lately to finish a sentence or put down a period before my index finger indulges in its love affair with that dreaded delete key.

People keep shuffling in and out this place, carrying their hot mochas, chai lattes, books and things. Glancing over as they pass by, they try making a connection that will give them a bit more mileage than the paperback they bought in the middle of the week.

This flow trickles down to nothing as I'm left with nobody in the neighboring tables. Finally I relax now that there are no wandering eyes to judge these pixels on my screen. Like old soldiers all that's left here are some old men jotting down thoughts on old notebooks, reading papers, or just looking at the street.

And these people come alive as I watch their very movement. That old man with the long white hair and the leather bound journal is writing the amazing story of a General of noble countenance and wit, who singlehandedly stopped the misdeeds of a terrible and corrupt leader deep within the lost territories of a nation in the south of the continent, only to die alone after years of sacrificing the love he fell for others for the love of country, glory and justice. I cant stop watching this kin of Borges write this incredible story, looking as if possessed by history and time. His brow furrows, signifying the end of the epic ninth chapter, the only moment of Glory in a life full of pain. I can see him sweat a little, and a wry smile escape his otherwise monumental gaze.

My inquiry ends when his eyes meet mine for a split second, his smile gone and replaced with the kind of grave expression usually reserved for men in history books. And I'm thrown back to this barren land of keys with symbols patiently waiting for someone to breathe meaning into them. And I sit here, my foot still conducting some silent orchestra, looking at those keys and thinking if maybe I am just as desperate for those keys to breathe meaning into me.

The Revisionist

The outside is calm and quiet, and he can almost hear faint notes of a
melody sinking into the dark, into his heart, out in the cold but only
in his mind. His arms reach out like the years into the past with its
glories and its tears. His mouth moves but the words stay inside,
swirling around and around just like time  seems to do. And in this
moebius strip of recycled plotlines he looks for the bits to rearrange
into a history of his own. With the details lost forever in the
patchwork of a memory sometimes too eager to forget, he collects, shapes
and forms all these things he's never seen, but he vaguely remembers. In
the end he stands complete, in this void and senseless chasm that stands
somewhere between what we are and what we feel.