| Music: | Debbie Gibson - Lost in Your Eyes |
They lack something. Picture the original game "Sonic" for the Genesis - at the end of each level, you would run across a sign with Dr. Robotnik, that flipped around and became a sign of Sonic. It is impossible to picture Sonic without those signs at the end of each level. A level without a sign is not a level from Sonic. That is how days have been feeling lately - Sonic levels without the sign. They just pass, and move on to the next, and feel incomplete. So much it is so, that I still believe we are in September, early days of October at most. Days are not getting concluded, they are never making it all the way there. They collapse near the finishing line. But they never happen again; they are left behind and replaced with another one that will not make it all the way there.
I need to publish a book. Soon. Let me rephrase that. I have an original, by someone who is not me. I have read it, at last, and need to make it into a book. But I had not been able to talk to the author since days immemorial (from when days did pass, and life was simple). This week I finally got his e-mail, and contacted him. And suddenly all problems revolving around the publishing of this book are gone, including the greatest of them all - he is not from Rio, as I was led to believe. At least I believe now he is not from Rio. I will not be surprised to learn he is my neighbor, too. Which means I can finally start to get this thing done, and then tell everyone that I, and I alone, braved the barren fields of fiction, and published a book of short stories - while all the others dared not go beyond the academical books, and the pictures, and the poetry. "These are too hard," the teacher said. "I want to!", I replied, "This may be the sole opportunity ever for me to publish something based solely on personal taste. I will do it."
Maybe this will put the sign back into the end of the levels. I hope so. If that does not, I will have to use the second plan, something I was saving for the case I could not contact the author at all: write my own book.
Or rather, put together something that resembles a book. In the most holy name of Apollo, if any guy can put together a bunch of ridiculous "poems" with no metre or rhyme (and reason) or feeling or quality and have it published under the school's label, surely I can do that as well. The only problem is that I would need another 19 poems or so (9 if I make them all as long as I plan to) and maybe - maybe - include one or two of those three tales I mentioned a few days ago - probably "Ambulance" and "Shutdown". I doubt I would have the stamina for such a project, though; as a result, it would not fill up my days, and it would result in nothing. But I would have a book with my name on the cover and twice inside, and I would forever remember it was written during those days that never ended.
Let the days end. I want days that end. Being outside of passing time is devastating.
Posted by Etienne at October 15, 2003 10:46 PM