OF LONELY RIDES AND MANGOES UNRIPE
By Maan “Maggie” Villar, The World According to Maggie V
General boredom – that is what I feel, as if I lost the gusto I have had of life and of my inclinations. I have lost not only the time but also the taste for vibrations on my violins and brushstrokes coloring an empty canvas. I only write my thoughts and it is how creative I could get at the point where I am now – if I don’t I would falter from my sanity, my thoughts would either be grotesque scratches of ideas forming nothing but a confabulation of bullshit. Writing is what keeps me afloat this torrid sea of lonesome and nightly dalliances with strangers and assholes. I wish I could uncover my talent again, write song and put images on canvas – but I am artless and I see the world with a gray monochrome and bland taste – I am generally bored, much uninspired.
To keep me company on days like these are several things: a pen – to write, friends – to laugh and share stories with, alcohol – to momentarily forget, books – to relish knowledge unknown, and distant thoughts and dreams – to hope. There are brushes with men and nights when such company is needed, fleeting moments of orgasms and embraces which tomorrow I would forget – a cure for a need, a compromise for resources now scarce. I am an actress feigning love and a possible relationship when definitely I would leave wee hours in the morning, not making a sound, right before breakfast because I hate awkward breakfasts with strangers. Casanovic delights – of the men under my belt, of the things I have written about them and of the seasoned scripts and romantic tongue at which I use to twirl them around my finger and my crazy.
But last night…
Over a few bottles of beer and salted fried pasta, my friend told me that I only sulk deeper in my sadness and loneliness because I look so much for inspiration, look so much for love – I pick mangoes unripe. Unripe mangoes are sour, he says. I should wait until it ripens and it is yellow and sweet for consumption. He uses this simile for my wanting love.
But I want to paint again, to make music again, to love again and live again – I insist. What they say is that I am a woman living beyond my age, older than I am but unwise in my decisions. That it is to come soon, I am a young lost thing in this world and that he too is looking for me. So I wait then. I wait and I wait… Tears in my eyes, the wait should be worth it. And hopefully by then I won’t have to hug myself at night and force myself to sleep.
I wonder how much longer I have to bare the lonely cab rides with the city scape bringing unwanted nostalgia, how much longer would that mango be ripe, I wonder…