I've been
trying to murder a part of me, albeit unconsciously. It's painful to accept
that that's what I've been up to but it is exactly what I’m doing. I've been
squelching my writing side.
It's annoying...really annoying. I can’t remember the last time I stringed two
words together. Two words o! Whatever happened to that desire of becoming
a writer, a full-time one at that, is what I can’t just puzzle out now.
How I used to dream of being in a room, furnished to taste but with lots
of books, correct internet access, crumpled papers and of course, my pen, note
pad, laptop and common sense. Twenty-four hours, seven days! How dumb I
must have been. God!
You know
what? I love God. He loves me too. In fact, He loved me first. He loved me so
much that He impregnated me with this writing thing. Did I say that? That's how
you know I can't write simple ‘psss’ as things stand now, I can't find words to
just capture my feeling. Yes, He impregnated me with this baby I've been trying
to kill ('abort' does not just capture the feeling). This is it: I don't want
to write but it comes to me. Like an unsatisfied lover. You don’t gerrit?
The mere feeling of putting draft pieces (which I'm growing a cemetery
for on Tobby, my long time mini-lappy-friend) gives me satisfaction but I don't
get to finish those pisses. Shouldn’t that be ‘pieces’? Rewind and fix the
right word, pleeeaaease. Why I don't finish those pieces, I can't still figure
out but their ghosts and the spirits of the ones yet unborn (which I'll
definitely not finish) have been haunting me. Truth be told, I'm sick.
I AM SICK.
I hate
drugs; I've not been thinking drugs. Been thinking mum's meals, the hot, spicy
ones (when unaffected by recession, I mean) and what miracles they can work
more than anti-malaria. How I miss home?
I AM
HOMESICK.
I am sick.
But something says mum's food will do nothing. The same thing says writing this
may be of help. Its per second shouts of ‘write…write…write', I’m beginning to
think, is my headache and cold.
Here I am
indulging a feeling I have consistently squelched, I hope I get well soon.
But I must
not fail to say it, by the way, that I HATE WRITING.
But you love
it
No, I hate
it.
Yes, I love
it. And I hope the pains it, alongside work-stress and my students, have
brought stops altogether this night. My students need me back tomorrow morning.
I wish me a
speedy recovery.
