The pressure to write every Friday is getting to me. Most times I have no idea what I will write about until Thursday evening. I while my week away hoping something transcendent or epic will happen. Like maybe I get attacked by a flying cockroach. Or get a marriage proposal (which I did. Just saying. Even if it was on a light note. I will take it. I’m not getting any younger and they are not coming in any faster.)
But then I think about the guys that read this blog. The guys that come and visit this space for whatever reason. It could be for a dose of humor. It could be because we are friends and they don’t want it to get awkward when we are having spiced rum and I ask remember that article I did? And they stare back blankly. It could also be a random guy from the internet that stumbles across this space like a lone traveler and decide to kick off their shoes and make themselves home for a minute or two. It could be someone that does not particularly like me; someone that is looking for a little bit of information they can use to malign my name with (heads up it is impossible. I do not have squeaky clean record. Never will. Strip clubs text me promotional messages. So go figure.) Then there’s the guys who genuinely believe I can do something with all this writing shenanigans. The guys that constantly remind me to not give up that at some point it will pay off. These guys come here to hold me accountable.
But then there’s also me. As much as I do not want to admit it. It feels like I want to make it a selfless act, a benevolent gesture of a writer bleeding his fingers at the keyboard as he empties his heart and soul to a mostly faceless audience. But, I do this shit for myself. Maybe it is therapy for a mind that cannot be silenced, a mind whose thoughts scream loudest at 3 am into the calm of the night. A restless soul that is trying to find its north. But at the root of it is me. I have to do this because I believe in it. Because it is the only thing right now that makes sense. And in a world that is slowly crumbling under its own pressure this little space is my safe heaven.
This journey has seen me face writing blocks that scare the pee out of me. I kid you not. Nothing is as scary as waking up at 4 am to pen down a piece and the screen stares back at you. Blank as your mind. Nothing wrenches your guts and daggers your heart as furiously typing away for twenty minutes only to hate what you’ve penned down. Nothing brings you to tears like hitting ‘ctrl + A’ and then the Del. I would like to talk about the nights I sneaked out of the house and sat on the roof. Feet dangling and the air tickling the as I looked at the clouds. These are times you get to ask the universe questions. Don’t let the idea of it fool you; there’s nothing profound about it. It is not dreamy. Romantic. Ideal. The cold bites. It seeps through your jacket into that vest and your teeth chatter against each other. Ten minutes in you opt for the warmth of the blanket and curse why you ever thought it was a good idea to even do it in the first place.
Then there’s the times the rain comforts. You know how it is raining outside and that shhhaaaa sound soothes? It is sort of therapeutic; there should be a name for it. And all of a sudden your creative juices are flowing. You think you could write the world a love poem. Tell it what it means to you at first. How it is beautiful. Then start unveiling its flaws, like a beautiful flower you tear it down petal by petal till it is nothing but an ugly bud. But instead you let that poem sit in your head. I like the idea of having it there. Knowing those are words I would never share with anyone leave them in my innermost vault of intimate thoughts. You have no idea how intriguing that is. That I as a writer, a person that basically shares his lives with strangers, has a secret stash of words that you will never enjoy. Blissful.
Also there’s this great misconception that writers have beautiful minds. That our souls are intertwined with our words. That is a load of bullshit. I am just another asshole next door that loves a cold beer. I can be a jerk, I mostly am. And greatly misunderstood too. But that is the greatest weight I have to bear. I have to bear the weight for reconciling people’s expectations of me and the actual reality. Sometimes beyond deep we just want to be shallow. There’s nothing wrong about wanting to grab a drink, meat and talk about socialites I can never date. I will also talk about cars I cannot afford. Do not expect profound texts in the idle of the day; I am not “sms Inspire to 30454 for inspirational quotes daily at only 25 shillings”. I will ask you silly questions like “unado?” and “nakuona lini.” It is not about mediocrity it is just what a normal person does and sometimes in my wildest dreams I see myself as normal. So yeah there’s that.
Can I talk about love? Or the lack of it? Or maybe keep it a story for another day? Okay let’s go with another day.
Also under complete duress with no option to opt out my sister wanted me to mention that it is her birthday. I will not do anything grand like get her the car of her dreams. In fact I am such a bad brother that I do not know what her dream car is. So yes it is her birthday and this is dedicated to her.
“Happy birthday sis. To all the fights we have not yet heard. The whisky you have not yet delivered. And to the future husband that I will torment. Have a good one.”