“Why do you write?”
Somebody asked me that today.
“Why do you write? What are you trying to accomplish?”
Today I walked along La Ria as the sun was going down. The sky was a deep magenta with red, and orange, and blue. It was cold but my coat was unbuttoned. It has been a warm December.
On January 21st 2016, I wrote something I was proud of. Something about cold dusks. Something about winter days. Something about magentas. I titled it “The Cotton Candy Day”.
“Why do you write?”
It’s complicated. Something about emotions; something about understanding. It’s mostly beauty now though, I guess. Something about beauty.
Does that make me shallow?
Maybe. Probably. But isn’t beauty is also worth something? A thought delivered aesthetically is better than the same told worse - but that’s not even up for debate, is it? I think I’m talking about something else. Something about beauty for beauty’s sake. Something about Oscar Wilde. Something about how things sounding nice is just nice, and about how that can constitute its own meaning. Something about niceness. Something nice and simple.
Something about “The Cotton Candy Day”. I thought about it today, watching the sun go down. I had a vague memory I’d dedicated it to my grandfather. “How needlessly sentimental,” I thought. I barely knew him, really, barely have any fond memories of us. A wise saying here. An anecdote there, maybe. But we didn’t really get along. He was a grumpy old man by the time I met him. We’d fight over the TV a lot. He’d fall asleep on the couch every night, snoring and drooling, watching reruns of old Barça matches. My mom would haul him away to his room when he’d let her. He only ever smelled of newspapers.
“Why do you write?”
Something about memory. I wish we’d had better ones. Maybe it’s cruel of me to share the ones I have. I was a kid back then, after all, and that makes them biased. Didn’t understand how it feels to grow old - still don’t - and I lacked empathy because empathy is something you teach. Isn’t it? Something you learn and practise. Maybe I just hadn’t had that much practise. Maybe I’d like him better now. Or not. Maybe he just wasn’t that great. Maybe it’s that simple.
In any case, though: sentimental. Needlessly sentimental. Why was a winter day not enough? Why did I have to make it “about something”? And why something so unrelated, so detached, so rash and strangely random?
The sky went from deep magenta, to purple, to navy blue. It was dark by the time I got home and opened my laptop. I clicked on “Dropbox.” Then “Random Writing.” Then “5. The Cotton Candy Day (21 jan. 2016).” Open.
I cringed at the clumsy syntax, at the predictable similes, at the random Spanishism that made their way into my English. I hate to re-read my own work, usually, but this time I didn’t close the document. I needed to read. I needed to listen. I was looking for something, something about answers.
“Today was a cotton candy day; today was a golden day; today was a fresh day; today was a bottle day; today was a damn near perfect day,” Sixteen-year-old me says.
I rolled my eyes - too many phrases placed in a senseless order - but I powered through. My grandfather was almost there. I remembered this, his old body tacked in right at the end of the piece for no reason, there to “say something,” there to exploit tragedy, there to belittle beauty. Something about “I wish my grandad was here.” Something about “He was great.” Something about “I miss him.” Empty statements. Naive. Pointless.
I took a breath before I continued.
Exhaled.
Next paragraph:
“And I wish I would have remembered that on this very same date, four years ago, I lost you. I bet that, at least in your youth, you would have loved this day as well.”
Oh.
I remembered this now.
Huh...
“Why do you write?”
Something about truthfulness, about figuring stuff out.
Comentários