My Muses

I am losing my creative juices. It must be the air; maybe it is too humid which impedes the oxygenation of the brain. Or maybe it is the water which is overzealously chlorinated that somehow encourages conformity of personality traits. See what I mean? The quality of my nonsensical ramblings has been reduced from dry-wit claptrap to logic-laced gobbledygook. It is a sure sign of maturity; I want my petulant puerility back.

I remember how I used to sit in my office – the real one, back in Australia where the discretion to leave my feet on the desk was left entirely to my preference – and would procrastinate from work with such grace and grandeur. I would drift from working on my thesis and begin conceptualising theories that challenge only those who care to make any sense out of them. I read with pride, my old entries in this blog that are able to dance along the fine thread of logic that separates wit from utter stupidity.

It is difficult, living on an island where fashion is dictated by Giordano and thinking out of the box means following guidelines. I find myself less sensitive to the minor details in life and often overlooking the pedestrian moments. Despite the inclination to wear bright colours I feel, perhaps, I’m becoming dull.

I think I just miss my muses – the desert chief, the debt collector and his wife, cheese and Mrs Whale, CG, the undisputed world’s best listener, the comely lawyer and the blur queen. If my world was a cloudless sky, they will be the palette from which my rainbow was painted. I get murky clouds nowadays, the kind you find on a hazy day when Indonesians start burning their own forests. Bless Alexander Graham Bell, but damn the itchybackside who came up with the day-light saving concept now that it is so difficult to reach my friends.

Ah yes, 6 April is coming. My friends will only be 2 hours ahead.