If art is life, therefore, I am alive.
So, until I die, I must write.
Why? Because, it’s my kind of art.
I repeat, “the day I stop writing is the day that I die”
And how many times have I died?
You, the reader, would know, by the numerous times I have gone MIA(missing in action), on this self-watering commitment I have with this persona, “The Drunken Writer“__ not drunk in the literal sense but overdosing on life.
A true lust for life. That even in my fragile times, I’ll still find a way to write artistic testimonies of my human condition; my hardship, emotions, questions, decisions and perceptions (Love, Hatred, Death, and Life)
Still, many times than I would want, my pen fails me; not for a lack of ink but what I’ll call a “mental tsunami” which always finds a way to bury me alive when the tectonic plates within me moves faster than it should (similar to an earthquake).
Art is how I have lived, still living, for the past 15 years – since that very night in Teniola Street, when my dad seized my phone during midnight calls with my lover Idowu, and I sat at the dinning table to write a poem about “The dangers of Midnight Calls”.
The irony…when I should have gone to bed sulking, I artistically spoke myself instead, to comfort and sleep.
And so it has been or so it should have been, when I turned 28 this year.
If, there was a word greater than bland… then yes.
Zero figures in the bank and barely enough love to go round the fingers of my hand.
Still, in good faith, I am grateful to God but in retrospect, I died.
A death that had long come in the month of July 2020. A year and a time in my life which shook my core to its very being and had me questioning my sexuality.
Ok, let me chill, more like explore a distant sexuality that was “buried?”.
However, fear women because it is still taking a lot to fix back what was broken.
Thankfully, the lesson came with the blessing of Nirvana.
Day by day, finessing itself through my veins till I consciously notice that my emotions are being processed differently.
I mean, explain how one finds humor in anger?
How can rage tickle me so much that laughter threatens to rip my rib cage? Cynical, if you ask me.
How does one stay unperturbed by disappointment?
How can I smile, be genuinely calm and hug him “bye” not even “goodbye” after seeing hard evidence of him cheating on me?
I thought this was the part where it is justifiably to go crazy. Where class did I learn this from?
How does one breathe properly? Smiling, crying and doing dishes.
Tears because of the uncertainty of my mother’s health. This calm demeanor, where did it come from?
And then the questions… “Am I on the right path?” “Why is this happening to me?” “What is this?” “Why me?”
The best decision however, was following God.
Thereby receiving this fresh outlook towards life and fixing my tainted perception about life.
Currently undergoing re-parenting from God.
Love and light.
