Me. Thoughts. Future.

It’s four minutes past ten in the morning as I churn this copy. A faulty faucet intersperses the placid air with intermittent drops of water. My right palm is frosty, my left tepid – just like my day so far. I roused at 4 am, under the relative quietude of the youthful morning and spent the next 30 minutes catching up on what had transpired on the socials and wider news whilst I was out. News articles and Op-eds are beginning to have a hold on me, I find myself yearning with a relentless vim of wanting to always be informed. I guess it comes with age and the congnizance that the status quo explicitly affect our lives. I need to see what politician did what and chastise them in my head. After catching up on the news, I set my phone aside and mused for circa ten minutes. I’m a sucker for introspection, I have a proclivity to play things in my head in color and see how things pan out, it is artistic. An escape too. But then I have quite a curt attention span, I’m jolted into reality when my mind recollects a mortifying sitch that had happened. I propped out of bed and stepped away.

I’m trying out this thing whereby I wake up and finish my assignments by 7 to clear the rest of the day for myself. Not that I have much to do but you know – contingencies; friends. Gab. Banter. Video games. Inane things et Al.

Ever so slowly, I feel myself get wearier. I’ve been running on 4 hours of sleep tops a night and I’m cynical that’s sustainable in the long run. For now, we hold on and try to sneak in a siesta in the afternoon.

I sat at the desk resolute, with a furrowed brow and probably the pink of my tongue sticking through the left corner of my kisser like a fledgling fine artist trying to stroke with precision. I executed my tasks; gingerly and meticulously and by about 7 as the world’s daze cleared, I was done. I sent them in at about 8 and laid back fulfilled, having the rest of the day to hog.

A crunch of reality slowly unfurled. My dad called a day ago. After a few niceties, he wanted to know when I’m dusting my undergraduate degree, which could have just been euphemism to ask; when I’m I stopping to pay your school fees. See, I have a brother in uni too, two years younger than I am, we have my old greying man besieged by bills. Thus I perceive his fervor over me completing my degree.

It is because of that truncated interaction that my gut started churning In angst. What next. What awaits after I’m done with college at the end of the year. What do I do as reality, responsibility and the exertion to emancipate from my parent’s nest gallops towards me. The delusion of a potential job on the outset from school isn’t even a thought I’d consider cushioning myself on, it’s almost a mirage. The future is foggy and fat chance it will prospectively clear soon. Not in this seemingly regressing state of our beloved (or not so) country. Not with what I’ve been reading.

Adulthood is daunting and quite disillusioning. I had thought of the future, on things I would want to do but I hadn’t quite really brooded in it and considered my options, hell, if I even have any. And now that foresight nudges me to mull hard I see the dicey days that lie ahead.

In hindsight, I really should’ve wrung out my frivolous days. Days of reckless abandon filled with the perpetual chase for hedonism with a proclivity towards tails. Not like I’m a man of my own and have my shit woven up together but ever since I turned 22, I’ve treaded more gingerly and bear a diminishing spoiling for frivolity. Reality has me under duress to be a refined version of myself. I cede.

I’ve toyed with the prospects of a lot of things. Things I’d rather not divulge here, at least for now, just in case I jinx them he-he. I’m that superstitious, occasionally. I hope one pans out favorably in due time and hopefully the apprehensiveness festering in my bones blows over. I’d love to do what I’m doing now, it would be bliss, won’t even feel like a job, well a maybe a tad because you have to revere and honor work deadlines.

It is eleven minutes to 11 as I peter out. This is me wearing my anxiety on my sleeves, the peculiar existence that I’m grappling with. Okay let’s put a kibosh to this lamentation and verbose whine, it’s beginning to sound dark and maybe far-flung depressive. So let’s wrap this up with a trivial question; Will Sanaipei Tande ever age, because dang!

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