This is a question I ought to be asking myself every time I mention a female in anything I write, in anything I conceive and wish to take formative shape. And I guess I could probably end up asking myself this, if only I didn’t know the answer already, and since I do, I don’t think there’s much of a point in discussing about that with myself. That’s predominantly why, I guess, I wished to share that part of my mind with you, (whoever you might be) which holds the knowledge as to who ‘she’ is. And I’m not filling a gossip column with this post, no way, and I guess you’d know about the validity of this remark in due course.
True, there was a phase when I believed that a writer is nothing but what inspires him or who inspires him, in which case (particularly the latter) it’s that person or thing that ‘writes through him’, or more precisely, that I do nothing but string words together, while it’s ‘she’ who injects life into my concoction, that it’s ‘she’ who paints the eyes and brings the dragon alive. And the past tense is to denote not that this ‘phase’ is not in existence anymore, but just that I now live a subtle evolution of what I once was, with a hint of a lot of egotism that makes me think like, “Heck, I can string something without my coke, because I’m no junkie”. Sad that I contradicted this statement an age before. I guess that’s what eighteen did to me, while its predecessor was an age of innocence. And yeah, there’s a sense of purpose that’s gone missing too, because until the ‘now phase’, I had a reason for writing whatever I wrote, but now it’s like all the reason’s gone and I write just to show the world that I can do it better than most, again with self-justification, so that I don’t find myself out of order.
So, who’s ‘she’, then? Who do I dream about in the night, who do I want to splash on, who do I want to impact the way she hits me?
She’s no one. I know it sounds lame, but I am justified at saying that there’s no one in particular that I make a subject of my works, not even a memory, or a longing, she’s more like a fact of life. It’s like ‘she’ is always there, and always has to be and there’s no way that I can think the way I think without tagging her in. Because I believe that ‘she’ would forever be a part of what I am, and her lack of particularity doesn’t thwart her genuineness in any way. Which means that I can pass her off as ‘Lydia’, as a non-existent ‘ideal’ girl, someone who’s like me but is female, someone who’s not detached from the real world but is immune to it and cannot be affected by anything unless she wants to be affected; so-called ‘perfections’, you know, but no, not really. She’s nowhere close to being perfect, although there’s a stage where she’d be, the time I first see her from when there’s going to be a slump from infinity, and while her peers, her counter-parts make their way down to below zero, she stays above and we’re balanced against each other, meaning she doesn’t get any lower in my opinion than I get in hers. And ‘Lydia’ is just her name, a name that Mayer used twice, a name that’s sufficiently intriguing, but I won’t call her that, no, because I know that once she gets some flesh and bones about her spirit, there’s a pretty thin chance that she’s not going to be called what I want her to be called, and that’s not going to affect her incredibility in any negative way, although I cannot say the same about a leg-up.
So how do I describe her in a more ‘worldly’ sense? Well, maybe she’s someone I needn’t try to make a mark on, but she’s not someone ‘who clicks’ all the same, for she can turn out to be the one who crushes me the most, one who stamps hardest, and all I can be sure about is that I’m going to like her for that: I’m going to feel nothing but joy in being a part, or a spectator of every little thing she does.
And that’s who ‘she’ is.
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