Twentysomething
After years of expensive education
A car full of books and anticipation
I’m an expert on Shakespeare and that’s a hell of a lot
but the world don't need scholars as much as I thought.
*
Walking past a series of shops in Bintan that looked just like one another, I paused slightly and the eyes flitted with interest over a long tanned arm with veins. It was drawing and attached to a browner naked torso. Hmmm. Very nice. And he was incredibly talented. I love his paintings, especially the one of a naked girl in rich yellow meadows, deep in thought (or was she missing someone). It costs only S$80. I would have paid without haggling, and perhaps upped it, except I don’t have that much on me. I paid him with compliments instead of cash and he was shyly pleased. And I walked away, with an impending sense of loss. Tragically and dramatically so, I am much aware too, that I had failed to make a difference in an artist’s life when I could, if I tried harder.
I told Mr I-would-be-a-painter-when-I-retired Dimples about the young Bintan painter who sells his art cheaply. What a waste of talent that is and my regrets that I did not buy, and thus, did not own, except in digital possession of the first piece of art that had meant something to me. Maybe I would just commission you to paint that for me, said I upon showing him what I had poorly captured. Later on, Mr Dimples, with slight hesitation, mentioned he could be going to Bintan and I was, of course, extremely happy to hear this. You have to buy it for me!!!!
It can be so simple, right, I asked him rhetorically. Just to go somewhere and paint and write for a living and not worrying incessantly about a material(istic) lifestyle. Don’t even have to go Scotland! Bintan will do fine. But Mr Dimples is not me (he will be anchored for at least another four more years?). The indentured servitude ends in a year’s time and Real Life, which has been kept in abeyance, can finally begin. There are no more timelines, unless I were to sign for more, and no longer can I blame anything or anyone but myself. It’s liberating, and scarily sobering too. I can’t just fuck around anymore but settle down, or is it really the other way round.
I’m really no different from the Beckys, Dorotheas or Madame Bovarys inhabiting and imbibing The Novel. They who think they are heroines of another breed and so richly deserve to be saved. After all, there can only be one Elizabeth and one Mr Darcy. Trying to seek solace in literature, whether it’s the English or French novel, is the pathway to ruin. I’m halfway there with my penchant to ruminate excessively.
*
Love ain’t the answer nor is work
The truth alludes me so much it hurts
But I’m still having fun and I guess that's the key
I'm a twenty something and I'll keep being me.
A car full of books and anticipation
I’m an expert on Shakespeare and that’s a hell of a lot
but the world don't need scholars as much as I thought.
*
Walking past a series of shops in Bintan that looked just like one another, I paused slightly and the eyes flitted with interest over a long tanned arm with veins. It was drawing and attached to a browner naked torso. Hmmm. Very nice. And he was incredibly talented. I love his paintings, especially the one of a naked girl in rich yellow meadows, deep in thought (or was she missing someone). It costs only S$80. I would have paid without haggling, and perhaps upped it, except I don’t have that much on me. I paid him with compliments instead of cash and he was shyly pleased. And I walked away, with an impending sense of loss. Tragically and dramatically so, I am much aware too, that I had failed to make a difference in an artist’s life when I could, if I tried harder.
I told Mr I-would-be-a-painter-when-I-retired Dimples about the young Bintan painter who sells his art cheaply. What a waste of talent that is and my regrets that I did not buy, and thus, did not own, except in digital possession of the first piece of art that had meant something to me. Maybe I would just commission you to paint that for me, said I upon showing him what I had poorly captured. Later on, Mr Dimples, with slight hesitation, mentioned he could be going to Bintan and I was, of course, extremely happy to hear this. You have to buy it for me!!!!
It can be so simple, right, I asked him rhetorically. Just to go somewhere and paint and write for a living and not worrying incessantly about a material(istic) lifestyle. Don’t even have to go Scotland! Bintan will do fine. But Mr Dimples is not me (he will be anchored for at least another four more years?). The indentured servitude ends in a year’s time and Real Life, which has been kept in abeyance, can finally begin. There are no more timelines, unless I were to sign for more, and no longer can I blame anything or anyone but myself. It’s liberating, and scarily sobering too. I can’t just fuck around anymore but settle down, or is it really the other way round.
I’m really no different from the Beckys, Dorotheas or Madame Bovarys inhabiting and imbibing The Novel. They who think they are heroines of another breed and so richly deserve to be saved. After all, there can only be one Elizabeth and one Mr Darcy. Trying to seek solace in literature, whether it’s the English or French novel, is the pathway to ruin. I’m halfway there with my penchant to ruminate excessively.
*
Love ain’t the answer nor is work
The truth alludes me so much it hurts
But I’m still having fun and I guess that's the key
I'm a twenty something and I'll keep being me.
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