Exams have insolently been on my arse. Hurtling me down rod in hand. Me, hot on my heels, ducking and heaving away from it. I’m on the final bend, in sight of the finish line yet so arduous for my heels. It’s been hellish hence my absence from this scene. Nothing ever really prepares you for exams, not even exhaustive studying. With it comes constant angst and bouts of anxiety. I am better off, you should see my friends. I look at them and some are shells of their personas; haggard – battered by assessments and cunning dons cum invigilators.

I have missed my baby. For two weeks now I have been coveting uninterrupted time for the two of us. I’m back to active writing. I seek to retrieve my mojo no matter how dusty or unrefined it could be. I wouldn’t be taken if I found it grew a beard. We need to catch up. To croon sweet nothings to each other’s ears. If possible we could cuddle only you’re inanimate. To imbue anecdotes and tales into each other. But first, I’ll have to apologise.

If someone told me a year ago I would relish writing I would ask the chap/lass to bugger off. Writing didn’t brush remotely close to what I have always wanted to do. I have always loved reading, but writing wasn’t something I had thought of. Well, not intently. Most of you are like me, sitting in disregard of the adept word benders out there. We watch seminal movies and don’t think of the writers; folk who sat in the writers room and banged words for us. We read insightful articles and books and don’t think much of the writers and editors that refined and curated it from its raw form to the final copy. I’m glad I stumbled into this realm. This writing thing is beautiful, rewarding yet unnerving with the same vivacity. There are days you create beautiful strings of words, almost melodious. Your muse beside you, nodding its head, proud of his boy. These are the days you sit back and reward yourself with a cold drink. Your conscience filled with a sense of fulfilment. Things look up and in a reverie you see a flourishing writing career – Bikozulu-esque, sans the mystery. That is too much privacy for man (me).

Then there are days you can’t write for shit, not for the lack of words but for the elusiveness of flow and inspiration. Imposter syndrome visits and it’s a bitch. It lingers in your head. Fills your thoughts and hoodwinks you to not being good enough. On these days pieces don’t yield, words are weak. A languid woven piece remains that –insipid – even to the readers. I thought writer’s block was a mirage. Just something writers use to cloak their excuses. Darn, when it hit the first time I wallowed in agony. I panicked, feeling like i had lost my ability. I felt desolate and bereft, like a predator had bit a chunk of my soul. I wrote to heaven and back but words did not make nary a sense. I gradually came to the realisation that like any other thing, there are good and bad days. The good days are more than its opposite but the bad days seem to be more potent in your head. When a bout of writer’s block comes knocking I seek inspiration from something else. I read other writers for some perspective. Perhaps, watch a movie. I don’t fight it anymore, it abates like clouds on a sunny day.

I was feeling like that a couple of days ago when I received a few messages. From people that have been reading my work. People I am grateful for. People who are keen enought to notice the writers behind the curtains, the brains before lights go on. Blood gushed through my veins. A fresh breath of air permeated my lungs. I felt happy. I felt welcome. I felt seen as i waddle to carve my way through the world of words.

I had planned to dust this space and write about someone I lent money but has since incessantly avoided me. I can’t, it elicits fury that I have lost the cash. And I am petty enough  not to let it go, not for another couple of years. I’ll write about him next time, maybe never, but if I do I will kill him – in the story of course. How do we do that, a severe bout of constipation maybe?

Crickets.

Sips juice.

PC: Pinterest

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