So where’s the big idea, the one that will clinch the deal? You could’ve been surfing all night, scouring the streets, for inspiration. You could’ve been hunting for it at the bottom of a glass that was once filled with bitter sweet ale. You could’ve been staring, without batting the eyes, at the television where item girls in hot pink dresses sing to a so-called foot tapping number. Or you could be leaning out of your balcony, staring at a lonely kite trying to find a branch, for a moment of peace.
Or perhaps a shutter bug will cross your path; with an interesting tale to tell. Or a woman whose life calls for a retake. Or maybe a child who still wonders why her parents can’t look her in the eye.
But where does this big idea hide?
Is it in some dust-ridden corner where no light trickles in? Is it inside the head that refuses to cooperate most of the time?
I haven’t stepped out to breathe in the summer sun – to see smiling faces go about their way – or drench in an accidental shower.
I haven’t seen life beyond a certain measurement. And as I draw into a close, closing up like a clam without the cheese, I realise that my ideas have died a natural death, mostly because of being ignored for far too long.
But even so, those ideas that managed to stay afloat, purely out of vengeance, don’t have enough steam in their blood.
You could be speaking and no one will hear you. Because let’s face it, you aren’t really saying anything that makes sense.
Who really cares to know if John Coltrane’s music could remind one of a shadowy afternoon in the rains? Or that Michael Buble is for the broken-hearted. Does anyone really care to know why it was important for a film like Juno to be made? Or perhaps how Clint Eastwood deserves a standing ovation for Gran Torino, and how accurate someone was when he told us that it was Dirty Harry walking into the sunset.
Or maybe when on a tired evening, a bunch of soft shell crabs filled my heart with so much warmth that I was finding it difficult to write about it later, without going overboard.
I don’t know so much. Sometimes I feel I forgot to evolve. Living in a world with Franz Kafka, Edith Piaf, Cole Porter and Leonard Cohen, I find myself often retarded. Ironic, I say. No one nods in agreement.