Put your thoughts on paper, they say. Well, I wish it were that simple. Back in my
graduation days, I came across a fascinating theory called the stream of consciousness. It’s
like hopping from one compartment to the next inside the character’s train of thought, a train
carrying me on a directionless, yet purposeful, journey.
The train I was to catch has already left. I am not sure when the next is to arrive, or its
destination. As I bide my time in this deserted station, I see pages scattered all around. Some
seem ripped off a book, some appear to be torn by sheer neglect. Some carelessly trampled
upon, bearing imprints as though they were bruise marks. And some lie crumpled, sullied by
the dirt of ages gone by. You ask me to catch my thoughts on paper, and make it sound as
easy as catching a train. Well, which page should I choose to begin with? Perhaps the one
where a piece of Caesar got transfigured into a paper boat, possibly in a crafty though
hopeless attempt to escape Brutus and company? The rest of his pieces, I gather, might have
scurried off in the train I missed. Nonetheless, here is an exquisite, I dare say even artistic,
display of butchery that even Brutus could do well to aspire to.
Write away, you say. No, it won’t do to merely scribble. Disintegrate yourself, if you
have to, into the marks and blotches of the ink that consumes you more than it does the page.
But, again, where to find that page, truly worth pouring my thoughts into? Ah, that one! No
taint, no stain, no tear, or shame. Indeed, almost too pristine, so much so that I begin to
question if my thoughts are even worthy of its pure, doe-eyed innocence. Won’t it be wearing
a butcher’s gloves? Wait, am I digressing again? No, enough of that rambling! Now, how can
I possibly hope to do justice? How about a cleansing, to begin with? Not some ritual
cleansing, though. Well then? Why, by smearing the dirt of generations past and present upon
your torn, tattered self. But that’s not all, you must sign your name lest you lose your claim
to it. And so, I scribble, and scribble, and keep on scribbling. A mere scribble— is that all I
am reduced to, or everything I dream of growing into?
Finally! The next train has been announced. I hastily fold the page, now no longer
immaculate… No longer unlike, we two. But where have the tracks disappeared? As I make
my way to the edge of the platform, the station clock chimes the next hour, seeming almost to
echo my pangs of hunger. A Caesar salad would have been nice.