into one of his routinized momentarily deep reveries, Giuseppe is at it again:
wandering in his lofty and capacious yet unstable brain–attic.
see, a man’s brain is originally like a little empty attic, and you have to
stock it with such furniture as you choose.”
train of thoughts would usually begin with that. He could even imagine Arthur
Conan Doyle speaking those words to him, but of course, represented more
vividly in the image of Sherlock Holmes in his mind.
fool takes in all the lumber of every sort that he comes across, so that the
knowledge which might be useful to him gets crowded out, or at best is jumbled
up with a lot of other things, so that he has a difficulty in laying his hands
is as if he is reading that same passage in A Study in Scarlet but in
repeat mode, and oh, a live storytelling. He felt excited as if this was that
very first time he read it.
a skillful workman is very careful indeed as to what he takes into his
brain-attic. He will have nothing but the tools which may help him in doing his
work, but of these he has a large assortment, and all in the most perfect
order. It is a mistake to think that the little rooms up in our heads have
elastic walls and can expand to any extent.”
really wanted to be a skillful workman. Hence, he wondered of the person he has
been. Of the person he might be. Of the person he would have been. All of sudden,
he can feel the rush of loneliness flowing inside him like melted glaciers.
knows he found himself and Holmes on the same ground. The same goes with
Vincent van Gogh, Jose Rizal and all other greats he has known. He has a
pronounced enthusiasm upon people who seek greatness. In fact, he has adapted a
lot of his habits from them.
is an emotionally unstable person—one might consider—but he is just another
person who wants to find himself, amidst the chaotic circumstances which
largely fill the world.
has become used to dipping into a lot of things and lately, he has been feeling
how much of a “jack–of– all–trades, master–of–none” he is.
some days, he felt like the fake drawers on bathroom cabinets or the false
pockets on some suits. Both are reasonable additions that looked like they
belonged, but still asks what possible purpose they may serve. He keeps on
asking the same question.
other days, he felt like a thunderstorm with too little thunder but with too
much rain. There seemed to be no fathomable idea on what he can do with all the
lightning growing inside of him. He is a book with no cover and has a torn
cover page. He is filled with words, but only those who cared to read will ever
understand what he is about.
felt very stressed. Now, everything that came to his mind just seem to worsen
the affliction. A delicate china is speeding toward a brick wall.
looked up to the sky. It is such a beautiful night. The stars appeared to him
as if they were the city lights shining down on him as he looks up, wondering
and thinking about things.
recalls that by looking upon the stars, we are theoretically looking back to
the past. It is as such because most of the stars we see at night have been
dead for long, but their light takes a very long time to reach our planet
because they are very far away from us. So we still see them twinkle, even
though they have been long gone.
gazed on the bright heavens and there seems to be even more stars than before.
More. They burn brighter. They shine longer. They never vanish in his periphery
when he turns your head. It is as if they come out to remind him that their
light took so long to reach him that if he never had the patience to wait, he
would have never seen them up there. Just like how beautiful he sees them
is, as much as it hurts, the only thing he can do is wait, endure and keep
shining knowing that eventually, his light will reach where it is supposed to
reach and shine for whom it is supposed to shine for. It is never easy, but it
is always worth it.
took a deep breath as if he just rose from underwater–his wistful waters–where
there is a desolate yet fulfilling journey.
closed his eyes and fell asleep.