She wakes up in the middle of the night, inspired. Impassive silence surrounds her and in this cavernous nothingness she sheds the fusty armoury of what she was thought to be and becomes, instead what she would like to be. A trip to the refridgerator and a can of condensed milk, leftover chicken wings, brown rice are ingested, scooped out with fingers . The smear of mustard remains as an incipient moustache. Her skin puckers up with a frown of focus as though, having satiated her ravenous appetite she now waits to tranpose that zest for life into a written medium. She sighs and picks up her quill, dips it in ink and suspends her femininity.
She roams around the house, she traverses its nooks, penetrates its unexplored orifices, slams into unforeseen quarters and ransacks her unconscious innards like a necrophiliac dismembering the catafalque. The thought she would like to transcribe, the spirit she would like to make flesh is too inchoate and formless. She is gravid with unmet longings, distended with the indigestible effluvia of unsorted memories, suppurated with mnemonics of oppressive customs. Her womb bulges and heaves with premonitory foreboding as though readying itself to birth. Her synapses syncopate, her silences thicken, her intensity deepens yet the form she needs to sheathe this seething cauldron is balked when its constituents are sought for. She peregrinates the forms that have been universalized, consecrated yet she finds their formalism and classical loftiness an insufficient mode to express her kaleidoscopic consciousness in.
She sees things. The life she lives behind the skin she inhabits merge seamlessly. She renders paplable immanent asymmetry. She merely makes visible subterranean hieroglyphs, unforeseen, unperceived though not unexperienced snippets of being that defy logic. Her thoughts are imperceptiibly awry because she contains within the accumulated, collective depredations of her lot. Historically contingent, culturally provisional she had been made a mythic abstraction with no voice. Yet into the impassable abyss of non being she precipitates her vertiginous intimations of selfhood. Into the universal void of emptiness she endeavors irradiation of her luminous sensibility. She abandons all efforts to conform, she dips into fusillades of subjectivity that inhere in her and picks up the quill with renewed determination.
She pauses for a second, the pen and the consciousness cleave. She writes.