This stage is called the divine clog. It’s the phase of slow pace, a familiar feeling that I abhor more than anything else but I end up romanticizing anyway. It’s like reading a lethargic book such as 100 Years of Solitude – tasting every nuisance and making each discrepancy linger in the head, hence the illusion of movement. The culprits are mostly matters of the emotion and intellect, I assume, and they are quite persistent in winning me over. They are the spirits which have long fought for residency in my being. In fact, they have now invaded my bedroom and have extinguished its atmosphere for productivity. When I go there, I seem to think of nothing but what a hopeless comedy the world is, what a noisy band of trumpets some of my students are, and what a hollow feeling it is to not have him around. As a result, the dining table, now doubles as a work station after meals; but what’s supposedly my refuge is being slowly taken over by these grey sluggish matter – a pack of ghosts. I think they’re starting to eat my brains out too; I’m just asking that they leave my heart in peace.
