Metafiction

The sun was already down when I woke up. I clenched my fist to see I’m alive. The wound on my hand opened again. As the weak fluorescent light was dangling in a rhythmic swing above my head, the blood drops seeping out of the wound transformed its shape incessantly. In each of the shape I found a jagged abyss reflected, and fear arose. Fear arose that the blood will devour and swallow me. I searched for a band. I imagined it was in the top drawer. But it wasn’t. I imagined it was in the middle drawer. It wasn’t. I imagined it was in the bottom drawer. It wasn’t.

Bemused with despair, I licked the blood and sucked on it desperately. It tasted of steel and rotten fish.

Then I wondered if I’d want to continue on my novel. I’d been drastically behind on it, and somehow I drowned into a pool of sloth and atrophy every time I tried to make a resolution to finish it. But a pang of agony touched me every time I faced the manuscript.

Instead I held up his English composition homework. He was… Was Se Hoon his name? I faintly recalled his mother handing me a snow-white paper and an envelope. I recalled she was wearing a black wool overcoat and a fedora, all of which looked too big for her. For this essay, she said, the question was to choose one practice that is causing an environmental issue. I found a cigarette in the right pocket and held it in one hand. Soon I conjured up a documentary I’d seen in National Geographic.

Nowadays, environmental problems have been a big dilemma…

The narration echoed though my head. Images also passed through. A long shot scanning over the Amazon forest. Fragmented parts of the forest caused by logging… Logging.

I jotted down the word ‘logging’, and soon wrote two paragraphs, consisting of no more ideas than the word ‘logging’ but still filling up the word count.

Logging must be stopped. Environmental problems have been a big dilemma. As the technology developed, environmental problems including green house effect, extinction of species, pollution have increased magnificently. What would have been the cause? I believe that the cause is logging and extraction of oil which are the most fundamentals of technological development.

In the case of Brazil, the Amazon is known as the lung of the earth. People are often times amazed by fireworks, arousing awe in their mind. However, this is directly messing up the air condition because we are throwing obnoxious gases into the atmosphere. This mere example which we are careless about reminds us again that logging should be stopped. Less tree means more vulnerable.

‘Amazon’. The word brought up very specific memories of me sitting in front of a TV set one happy Sunday afternoon. My father, lying on a sofa, would shout out a sentence or two emphasizing the urgency of preserving the forest as if he was head of the Brazil department of environmental issues. I nodded when he said it, since I felt he needed approval. My dad needed approval.

Actually I was supposed to see him this morning. But I couldn’t, because I somewhat remembered the promise but wanted to forget about it by sleeping. In my dream my father appeared with an ax in his hand, and ran after me to cut my throat like a lumberjack of Amazon forest. His many attacks failed to reach my neck, but left a clear cut on my hand. Blood flowed out of my veins, but the blood was not red. It did not hold any color. It was transparent and dense like a tree sap, and fell on the floor like tears falling. What an awful dream.

My dreams always aroused self-pity. I hated them for being so, and I hated me for having those. But then, what was so wrong with self-pity? Where would a miserable wannabe writer with a small apartment room not receive some sympathy? If some money-crazy producer films my daily life for a reality show, I’d probably receive a free consultation with a psychiatrist and a recuperation program. My father pitied me. He sighed every time I met him, but with a familiar stare pointing me as the cause for all my misfortune. He’d give me some job offers, but I’d reject all of them for no reason. He’d ask me what I’d want to end up in, and I wouldn’t answer. An awkward pause would follow, and he’d leave. I’d hate myself over the whole conversation. The inquiry always stayed there:

Should I stop?

I thought for a moment.

No.

For a moment my conscience was clear, and I clenched my fist for a renewed resolution. The wound on my hand opened again. As the weak fluorescent light was dangling in a rhythmic swing above my head, the blood drops lightened. Nonetheless, I searched for my unfinished manuscript. I imagined it was in the top drawer. It was.

For a moment I turned my head to glance at the essay paper, left with two paragraphs. I wrote down a little more, and I threw it away, out of my sight.

Yes, yes. I do keep on writing this crap. But do any of us really care about trees in faraway land when we are writing on a snow-white paper? Do you think this is possible? For me., the discussion is all trite and mundane like feminism. I'd rather talk about the ugliness of the word "logging". Log-ging, Log-ging. How lame is it?

 I'm stuck in my house because I caught a cold. I don't care about the world. Let it be Superman's daily chores. Also, my cousin is a tree. He once was a man who worked for Zeus. He had such a strong power. He could exert a lightning beam from his hand. However, he overused his power. He made people electrically shocked. Finally, Zeus turned him into a tree.

But, Zeus had a hard time making him into a tree. My cousin, before being transformed into a tree, was able to turn Zeus into a man. Zeus is now coming to me. He’ll turn me into a tree and I’ll turn him into a tree.