More Lines So I Don’t Die Out

This is that one more flick of the coin, the dice, the part of your mind that reminds you that this could be it, the only message your mind remembers from the story of the patient dog.

The patient dog is not dead, yet.

I have kind of been consciously running away from writing, and the procrastination is not to be blamed this time. I need to fully remind all of me that I do not even have the time to do anything else, including brainstorming on what to write.

I mean I love to write, when you take out the dreadful one word=one Naira Nigerians have scarred my psyche with. Maybe this rediscovery of my love for writing journalistic pieces came at the same time I discovered The Bold Type. What a coincidence, or not. I mean I could be Joan Sloan, without the prompt meetings and occupational pressure.

The words come, more than before, but I’m often too tired or mentally stressed out to pick up my phone or laptop to write something down.

I really thought I could channel myself more to writing poetry, you know “ think about all you want to write in the bathroom” poetry and write down some lines. Everything will come together in due time.

Haha!

I talked with an acquaintance yesterday. You know that kind of talk that is prompted by a thread of cynical tweets. I mean I love when people check up on me, that’s not something I take for granted as the strong person.

The strong person.

But being strong is not something achieved once and for all, it’s a now and then. Sometimes I’m grateful for my anti-social pet peeves, other times I’m left bemoaning my self-vilification of emotional dependence.

It’s a to and fro affair. Wanting to be left alone yet praying someone notices my absence.

At this point I have nothing else to lose. I’ve learnt the language of migration, of existing on scenic pleasures, of borrowing what time gives-the litany that nothing is really mine, that everything I have is sand and there’s sand everywhere.