Body Bad, Body Good

1

Body

Until my late forties I didn’t scribble any note or doodle anything on a book, not even an
underline. My mother taught me not to do so in my nursery. I have been an ever lamb.
Not until I found a book in my body I marked a line. The book, scrivened by the I who lived this
life in another time, outside this life, was hurled inside through my eyes. I picked it up from a
spot between my id and my ego.
There is a sentence “I cannot bear the responsibility of memory anymore.” I underline it again
and again wondering if the weight of memory depends on the body or not, perhaps on how one’s
skin shines or his hair, how one stands tall or bend, or how one stammers a badly rehearsed monologue.

2

The Monologue

The body desires, but cannot move an inch towards the goal. Atychiphobia and physical
inefficacy contribute to my indolence. I slouch, slip, sleep, suffer a dream. There hums a bee
within. The flowers blooming have no odors because they are born behind the nostrils. “I can be
a great bully.” I pick up the pruning scissors.

The body ranks in a procession. The body knows the riot. The body knows the colour of its skin
seen in the mirror. If everything is inside then why do I see the pages journaled, fate lines drawn
on it by a crow holding a pencil between its beaks.