Dear Santa
I wish I could write like Stephen Fry. To lovingly, liltingly flow through words, a caress here, the most delicate of touches there, and paint verbal pictures that make even the most cloacal of matters look like meadows lit by the dew on a crisp halcyon morning.
I wish I could write like Wodehouse. To pick pen & p., and charge out to the terrace in a swift walk. One that would make Usian Bolt feel like the old church-going lady you must make cross the road every time you happen to meet on the sidewalk. On one of those days where nature's holy plan seems to involve quite a bit of a nap, and the clouds above seem to yell, "Say it with ink!"
Or maybe I could write like Bukowski. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't take long to write about the assholes who probably couldn't tell the difference between a love gone sour and the rugged, swirling defecation of humanity splattered across a barstool, waiting for another dirty glass of shame.
I wish I could fall in love. Not the sullen romance I seem ready to imbibe at the drop of a handkerchief, but a devotion that just cannot be unrequited and would surpass my own obsession with and reflective loathing of myself.
I wish I could smoke at all times. The way a jock on a chopper wears a tattoo on his arm, I would show my solidarity with flame, my lips stuck to cancer, day in day out letting out my existence, one small puff at a time.
I wish I could lose some weight. That I would actually go out and run or play or do something instead of having eleventh-hour realizations about how there is nothing to actually lose weight for.
I wish I could write about something cheery for once. Something light, on the most commonplace of things; the traditional beauty of moonlight seeping through the mist in the branches of a barren tree, or a screech of gulls taking wing above a beach. Or even the laugh of a child or the joy of a compliment well-deserved. Make it a point to be happy, instead of spewing bile and decrepitude with every word I write.
I wish I could write all of this in blank verse. Write it as I read it in my head, and think of myself as Ginsberg, if only to yelp for a moment. To not worry about how it wouldn't make any sense to the 13 or so people who would probably end up reading this.
But I just can't seem to do so.
I wish I could write like Wodehouse. To pick pen & p., and charge out to the terrace in a swift walk. One that would make Usian Bolt feel like the old church-going lady you must make cross the road every time you happen to meet on the sidewalk. On one of those days where nature's holy plan seems to involve quite a bit of a nap, and the clouds above seem to yell, "Say it with ink!"
Or maybe I could write like Bukowski. It shouldn't be hard, shouldn't take long to write about the assholes who probably couldn't tell the difference between a love gone sour and the rugged, swirling defecation of humanity splattered across a barstool, waiting for another dirty glass of shame.
I wish I could fall in love. Not the sullen romance I seem ready to imbibe at the drop of a handkerchief, but a devotion that just cannot be unrequited and would surpass my own obsession with and reflective loathing of myself.
I wish I could smoke at all times. The way a jock on a chopper wears a tattoo on his arm, I would show my solidarity with flame, my lips stuck to cancer, day in day out letting out my existence, one small puff at a time.
I wish I could lose some weight. That I would actually go out and run or play or do something instead of having eleventh-hour realizations about how there is nothing to actually lose weight for.
I wish I could write about something cheery for once. Something light, on the most commonplace of things; the traditional beauty of moonlight seeping through the mist in the branches of a barren tree, or a screech of gulls taking wing above a beach. Or even the laugh of a child or the joy of a compliment well-deserved. Make it a point to be happy, instead of spewing bile and decrepitude with every word I write.
I wish I could write all of this in blank verse. Write it as I read it in my head, and think of myself as Ginsberg, if only to yelp for a moment. To not worry about how it wouldn't make any sense to the 13 or so people who would probably end up reading this.
But I just can't seem to do so.
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