Not That Boy

These days have been quiet, and, God knows, after the chaos of the weeks past, the silence is welcome. Golden, and welcome. I have been a very poor correspondent these past few days, be it via e-mail, on Facebook or even on the blog. The truth of the matter is that I am absolutely absorbed in writing a new short story. I type feverishly into the night, and erase major, major chunks out of it the next morning. I am working on two sections of it simultaneously which, in itself, is oddly rewarding. I think I have reached the point now where my characters have a life of their own, and it is they who are directing my fingers: arguing with me passionately about their motives, unhappy about the way they have been portrayed in a certain sequence....It's nothing short of magical when that happens! In fact, it is with a slight wince that I recount the temerity of the lines that Dame Judi Dench utters in 'Nine':

Directing a movie is a very overrated job, we all know it. You just have to say yes or no. What else do you do? Nothing. "Maestro, should this be red?" Yes. "Green?" No. "More extras?" Yes. "More lipstick?" No. Yes. No. Yes. No. That's directing.

Will I place the story on the blog? I do not know. I think it's too explicit. I am almost afraid that I am turning into a peddler of smut. A rational part of me is questioning whether this work in-progress should progress at all, but I am slightly drunk on the possibilities this story evokes. Maybe I have overestimated myself, maybe this concept needs to be handled by more experienced, more deliberate hands...

In truth, I need this story. I need the obsession it inspires in me, because, devoid of this, I shall pay idle visits to dolorous thoughts holed up in their decadently tragic apartments. These thoughts, though of my own making, are exactly the kind of 'people' I cannot stand to be around. They depress me. So yes, I have been rejected in love. Was it even love? Who's to say? The problem lies in the fact that I am not that boy. Would it help if I were thinner? Not as preoccupied with books, clothes, and myself? Would it help if I launched myself into a plethora of extreme sports? I beg you, constant reader, do not advise me to "be myself", I shan't be able to stand it if you did! At this point of time the only definition of "myself" that comes to mind is "Not that boy".

Recently, a dear friend in blogging found her airways constricting, and the walls closing in on her; I shall heed that as a warning, and concentrate on trying to breathe. If it is my obsession with this story that shall prevent me from falling into that languorous ravine of self-pity, then so be it. I am not that boy, because I go a little crazy. I am not that boy, because I live a kind of dream. I am not that boy, because sometimes reality, to me, is hazy. It scares me how much I wish I was that boy instead.

As ever,
GossipGuy.