Warning: This work has been rated 18+ for language.
Hello. [Kazumi] here.
To be quite frank, I don't want to write right now. It feels pretty lazy to write. I mean, I can write. I have a small headache that has persisted for two days despite constant sleeping and room isolation, but my temperature hasn't risen at all, my appetite is still strong, and as you can clearly read, I can still write quite nicely. So yes, I am still very much capable of writing--mentally and physically.
However, nakakatamad magsulat.
Or in English, I feel too lazy to write. Or I don't feel in the mood to write. Or it takes a great effort for me to get myself to write. You see why I expressed it in Tagalog? I'd say I'm pretty damn fluent in English, perhaps even more fluent than an average Englishman or American my age. But in Tagalog I could express that feeling in just two words. Two very crisp words. Two very crisp words that roll off the tongue so nicely when you hear a Filipino say it in native Tagalog accent. Nakakatamad magsulat. It's so concise, well-contained and perfect, like the sound of a little whiskey being poured into a glass with two ice cubes while the jazz quartet plays in the background.
Speaking of jazz quartet, I'm now listening to my jazz playlist on Spotify. Now, I don't know who the fuck is performing the music I'm listening to. It could be Stan Getz, Lester Young, or whoever else I picked out from Haruki Murakami's vinyl record playlist. I just picked some pleasant jazz songs on aforementioned playlist, looked at the artists, and added as many of their albums and songs into my playlist. God damn, music has never been so cheap these days.
It's very pleasant. I like Billie Holiday in particular. Billie Eilish? I don't know her, sis. Holiday has some very soothing jazz vocals, especially in her Lady in Satin album, which has her accompanied by a whole-ass orchestra. However, I do prefer her older, simpler records where she simply performs with Lester Young. It feels homier, more cozy, and more fitting of a jazz bar than the grandiose instrumentals of Lady in Satin.
Anyway, this jazz playlist of mine is important. It's because with it, I can trick my brain into writing. Oh my lordy. It's really simple. I just pop my Spotify open, put this playlist on shuffle, and get on my word processor/notebook.
Think of it like this. Would you rather write in your room, or would you rather write in your room with a nice cup of Starbucks latte by your side? It's that beverage entertainment, baby. It's that little something fun to go with your writing that encourages you to actually sit your ass down on that desk in the first place. And once you have strategically positioned your ass on that magical writing chair (not desk, my mistake), you have officially beaten procrastination. Procrastination is dead. You are geared up and one word away from beginning your work as a writer for that day.
Look where that got me now. I first started with a Lady in Satin song with the goal of only writing 300 words for the day. But five songs and one Spotify ad later, I have probably written 500, 600 words already? Fucking amazing. Jazz is fucking amazing. Rock and roll may die, rap may get phased out, but I hope jazz never fucking dies out. If a dictator rises up in my country and for some reason bans jazz, then by golly gee I am going to get my ass on the street pulling a one-man demonstration, clamoring for the return of Frank Sinatra and the other sexy voices I hear in these records. Or I may as well just secretly download those and store them in USBs, which I will illegally distribute to friends. I can't write when I'm dead, you know. (Unless there are pens in the afterlife. Which I doubt. I'm not sure if being in an eternal state of union with God includes writing materials, or if Satan's that decent of a guy.)
Anyway, things are getting too long, so I will shut things off soon. I would like to say one thing, however. I'm saying this not for you, but for me. You know how you remember things you write down better than mental notes you make in your head? Same logic here. I am publicly stating this for myself, so that this is imprinted in my head.
Two years ago a guy believed in me. He was a stranger, but he said I would go far. I was, at my youthful age, disciplined, compared to him, who at my age was just tinkering around with DoTA and fucking around with friends. He said I was disciplined, and that I could go far, and it was good that I was ambitious.
Someone believed in me. Someone believed in me.
In the grander scheme of things I might not be special. But now, I have to believe the lie that I am special and that I am talented and that I will go far, because that is the only way that I will get shit done. Because quite frankly, the writingless and lazy and YouTube-filled rut that I am in--it is totally unbecoming of someone who is special. It is unbecoming of someone who will go far in life and perhaps etch themselves into the pantheon of great artists of history. It is unbecoming of who I am. So I need to get my shit together.