BEFORE I SELF-IMPLODE…

 

exploding-head

Well, over the past few weeks, I’ve tried to squeeze out topics from my skull but nothing seems to come to mind. I mean, I have combed the recesses of my mind for something to write but it seems my mind just went lazy. When I first started this, I thought for sure that within a year, I should have gotten some form of public acclaim, something to show that I’m not just wasting my time typing away furiously on my laptop but I’m still stuck within my circle of friends. Once in a while, I get some sort of recognition from places I least expect but oh well, who was I kidding? I was never going to blow from just boring pieces about my perspective. The people need excitement and fun and since, I’m not going to conform to their desires, I might as well be comfortable with what I get.

I do this for the fun of writing though. I do not do this for the fame (although I wouldn’t mind having a bit of it). When I scribble down words or type away on my laptop, I do it because I’m lost in a world of words and the only way to escape this insane place is to keep on writing till my mind is content. This is my only escape from the insane thoughts inside my head. Many times, I have tried to give up on this but then, the words in my head hold me captive and refuse to let me go. Each time I go out walking, I am constantly flooded with a barrage of thoughts, hoping to let themselves out. And they seem pretty good at first but then turn out to be half-assed thoughts and I am forced to kick them to the curb. Each time, I ask myself what it all means. I cannot escape from this world I find myself in. No matter what I try, no matter the lack of effort I put in, the words still chase me around.

I found my love for words in stories and novels. I can remember the stories told to me about my love for story-telling. Not that I would tell them myself but I love listening to them. As a kid, I wouldn’t eat till I was told a story. My aunties would comb through the recesses of their brain to find a story long enough to keep me eating. As I grew, I buried myself in novels; I eat with them, relax with them, sleep with them. I was curious, I loved the stories, I wanted to find out. I read novels regardless of the author (up till today, when people talk about their favourite authors, I can barely remember any; I just remember the stories I’ve read). Many times, I would sit and relive a story I have read. I would sit and daydream about what I would have done in a particular situation. I was wholly immersed in my world of stories. This was my escape from the craziness around me, this was my ideal world.

I tried my hands on story-telling for a bit and I was quick to find out that it wasn’t my calling. My stories seemed to lack the sort of excitement that would keep a person spellbound. At point, I wondered if it was just me or did authors find their stories boring too? There was no way to find out so I quickly gave up on story-writing. But the stories were still stuck in my head, the words dancing and playing around in my skull. I had to find a way to get them out somehow. I started out with my classmates; I would write vague descriptions about them, leaving just a slight hint and it would be passed around class so everyone could decipher. They were usually comical and people would have fun while they were deciphering. Occasionally, I would scribble down stuff which I felt was meaningful and ‘deep’ and would also pass it around class and everyone would acknowledge that I would soon be one of the greats. I was aiming for that Chinua Achebe level (I am, no more). One time it hit me that these things were just my perspective on things and when I was doing that, I could write freely without having to streamline whatever I was writing to a particular outcome. I could deviate from topics and come back to them however I wanted because it is my view and I don’t have to give a hoot about any other person. I mean, sure the audience is important but I’m doing this for me.

Normally, this was supposed to be where I would rant off and state that I have given up on this blog because frankly, it seems I have. The topics are hard to come by and I am running out of catchy titles to give. After a year of no notable recognition, I should give up right? But hell no, I’m not in it for the recognition; I’m in it for me. This is the only place I can blow off steam, this is the only place I can write my mind without having to care or be politically correct. I am writing this to constant reassure myself of my sanity, to tell myself that I’m not wasting my time on this blog. This post is something to get off my chest at least, before I self-implode.

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