…It all began with a little bit of an overboard eruption of anger and frustration germinating from years of controlled tolerance in a world of constant perils.
I sat by the computer one evening after a tiring day at work just idly perusing my documents for anything of interest in a therapeutic sort of way. In the background was the sound of this almost angel-demonic banshee-like voice of a “succubus” with a really sonorous feel to it. It almost sounded like the soundtrack to a horror flick and felt almost same considering the cold and near-dark ambiance the room carried at the time. In an instance I began to see my life play before my eyes in total exactness. Why was I feeling so low? Who or what was really responsible when it came down to it? So many questions; insufficient answers were all the compensation I got for them all. That’s when I decided to write a book about my personal experience in this world of viscous serenity…
Sometime in 2008
29/01/2010; 6:09AM
Almost two years later, I stumble on this incomplete script I attempted to write in my darkest moments of melancholy. And I wonder why I never saw it to completion. Not even a complete page of manuscript! In the last year that passed me by, my mind has been very active, pondering on this and that, shoving experiences, words and deeds in a special place where I could easily scoop from the wealth accumulated and build a fine story…but alas! When the time to write was at hand, I scooped and scooped but all I recovered was the emptiness of an archive once inundated with issues but now void, not by absence of those issues but rather by a clutter of even more compounding issues that makes a mess of everything, words that don’t make more sense than a baby talking gibberish. So I wrote this instead, in an attempt to forgive myself for the forgetfulness, the nonchalance, loss of creativity…not for your entertainment as you thought! But then again I wonder the real reason I never did continue with my manuscript. In the first place, it was inspired by my troubles. Then maybe I should be thankful I never did, for my troubles lost me in inspiration, which is a good thing, no?
So maybe I should never complain when I lose my inspiration to write, for I might have lost some gloom alongside. What a beautiful irony!
Thursday 28 January 2010
Tuesday 26 January 2010
POESY; A Sucker’s Outlet?
Wherein lies my freedom to express my emotions with as much intensity as I could never find possible in reality but by poetry? How may I display tender affections without the risk of effeminacy, still proudly positioning myself as the alpha male but by poetry? Is this poetry which I constantly indulge a way of giving life to emotions I know I could never truly feel, or is it rather my escapist philosophy for the emotions which I feel but have never felt so comfortable as to express it “eye to eye” towards the inspiring figure for fear of losing my poise as a force void of the distortions of emotions?
Poetry is my soul food. It is the fortress of my thoughts. It is inspired by love; love for life, love for art and science, love for literature and of course the love for affection. Still, it finds inspiration in the sorrows of what is hoped for and yet stays unfulfilled. I even dare say that more poetry has been inspired by a constant dissatisfaction of looming desires than by the fulfillment of having that which is craved for.
Why then is poetry the key to the rusted locks and shackles of hearts of stone? Why does it do justice to broken hearts where hope feels hopelessness? Why does it keep the mind fixated on the nakedness of vulnerability, while indulging a piper’s dream? By what peculiar science of chemistry does it glue broken hearts back together, even in the face of imminent disaster?
I know so little of poetry, besides its power of therapy. I think, I write, I feel, I scribble, I validate, I note; and at the close of the day, I call it poetry. Many love I have lost, by no fault of the fair ladies, for they were mostly good, loving, passionate, kind and fair. Yet, by some Mephistophelean gift, I saw the prophesy of an end, even before the beginning. But never with poetry, for it was a world of solace, bound by my creation. It was place of endless romance, blissful from the beginning, and having no end. It was my fools’ paradise, the Utopia for a ferociously loving heart. It was my outlet, for true passion in reality always seemed to evade me by my own devise. I was always a sucker by self-destruct, letting the prime visitors of jealously, subservience, selfishness, superiority and lust eat up my meal of true love. My only savior was my poetry; my sucker outlet!
January 12 at 10:52pm
Poetry is my soul food. It is the fortress of my thoughts. It is inspired by love; love for life, love for art and science, love for literature and of course the love for affection. Still, it finds inspiration in the sorrows of what is hoped for and yet stays unfulfilled. I even dare say that more poetry has been inspired by a constant dissatisfaction of looming desires than by the fulfillment of having that which is craved for.
Why then is poetry the key to the rusted locks and shackles of hearts of stone? Why does it do justice to broken hearts where hope feels hopelessness? Why does it keep the mind fixated on the nakedness of vulnerability, while indulging a piper’s dream? By what peculiar science of chemistry does it glue broken hearts back together, even in the face of imminent disaster?
I know so little of poetry, besides its power of therapy. I think, I write, I feel, I scribble, I validate, I note; and at the close of the day, I call it poetry. Many love I have lost, by no fault of the fair ladies, for they were mostly good, loving, passionate, kind and fair. Yet, by some Mephistophelean gift, I saw the prophesy of an end, even before the beginning. But never with poetry, for it was a world of solace, bound by my creation. It was place of endless romance, blissful from the beginning, and having no end. It was my fools’ paradise, the Utopia for a ferociously loving heart. It was my outlet, for true passion in reality always seemed to evade me by my own devise. I was always a sucker by self-destruct, letting the prime visitors of jealously, subservience, selfishness, superiority and lust eat up my meal of true love. My only savior was my poetry; my sucker outlet!
January 12 at 10:52pm
Saturday 23 January 2010
A SEED FOR THE EMPTINESS
It’s a funny thing, these endless scuffles we allow ourselves get into, sometimes against ourselves. The burden of life is to blame for our indulgence as we entertain its troubles as a means of justifying our excesses, then we vent on those who we ought to share tender moments with because we feel it’s only right then understand. They are our outlet, and we expect them to entertain our complexities. Well, if they don’t, it’s just too bad because there’s just so may we could find like them! But is this really a fact? I have no clue. What I do know is we constantly get shot in the foot when we do this. No one welcomes a hermit’s life on purpose. Mostly, it’s a function of not getting what we hope for. But where the heck do we even get off giving up the search?! It’s all in the American dream; the pursuit for happiness…oops! But I’m Nigerian and have no clue what the American dream is all about. Ok then, why don’t I just build the orientation in my mind of the Nigerian dream? Oh, I remember…we have no dream! We live, we wallow helplessly in what we get, we stay fixated in the myopia of convoluted vanities, and ultimately lose sight of what we are.
Whoever knew what we are (or were)? Who could convince me otherwise, against my frozen opinions? And who the hell said I care even about my opinion? Truth is opinions to me are fluid, a pragmatic kaleidoscope of my cognitive reasons of the assertions of others. Hence, I don’t consider myself a creator. Maybe a critic, maybe an opinion rapist, maybe even a hypocrite. But it’s all same, aint it?
What matter I do know of I speak confidently, still it’s just a point of view. Mostly it stands out on its own, glaring and open to ambiguity. In the clouds of thoughts that precipitate in my deepest consciousness, I recognize reason, I personalize it and create a philosophy of logical faith with a flexible backbone. Reason with me, doubt my logic, insult my inspiration, laud my finesse, it still remains a ghost of words that even I can’t comprehend. But at the end of the day, let me freely express myself in a way I feel comfortable. My words may be inclined to emptiness in your faculties, but so are the lives of so many. Emptiness is a word where many find common ground. It is success stumbled upon. Now compare (my) words and (a) life. It seems to me they stand firmly at both ends of a stick. But sure if you stand unbiased, the midpoint of such comparison is not so much of a fiction. So entertain your emptiness, for they are your stray vanities whose proclivities only serve to tell more of who you really are.
I may hardly be a writer, but I pull plugs nonetheless. I mostly find my ignorance a source of peculiar intelligence. The little I know has led me to the assumption of what I don’t. Scribbling down is to me the best fruition for my intuition, for now you are reading this and you know what I feel. I have thoughts about almost everything; relationships, philosophy, poesy, morality (and the obvious lack of it), violence, scriptures and religion, personality, effectiveness, principles, power, sin, rapture and the imminent end. Some of these I share freely, others I keep to myself. Not that I care for the grievances my opinions may fester if they be radical, rather it’s more of it being my prerogative to share. But at the end of the day, when you misconstrue my meaning, or my intention, just remember this; they are just words on a page, as empty as the presence of ghosts, yet vivid to the memory of he who sees the apparition, akin to my words creeping in your subconscious in search for reason. Ultimately, this is the seed I plant in your mind to afforest the void you may well possess.
A FREE MIND’S TRAIN OF THOUGHTS
My life is brilliant; I don’t give a hoot about yours. There's a lot I'm yet to experience, yet I've seen plenty already. Life is a flytrap, and we all get caught in sometimes. So when I take advantage of your excesses, indulge my quest for fulfillment for it may well be to your satisfaction. But if it does not serve to your advantage, I guess it’s my bad; everyone has got to be a sucker for someone sometime.
What is not known to be a lie is the truth till it is known to be a lie. But truth is relative, for it is a symbol of our individually unique perspective. As our individualities differ, so does our perspective. Hence, what I consider to be truth may well be your excuse for a compromise, worse still a fallacy to your innate sense of reason.
But who cares? Nobody really gives a shit! You think they do, misinterpreting good intentions for what it is not. They want to care, to love and to share, and hold your hand like they will always be there…believe it, and you will believe anything!
But there comes a time in your life when, overwhelmed by yourself and what burden you bear on this world, you begin to perceive the verity that everything besides your own existence is but a hovering shadow, every loving action geared in your direction is but a whisper of advice, a subtle drive of positive propagation, and you alone are the perfect light made to brighten your world, eliminating those shadows to reveal the essence of every living being, once silhouetted by the mysteries of their active minds, but now existing only as a unique piece of divine “tile” searching for its perfect position in the scheme of things, waiting to be dominoed into eternity; the Ideal.
What is not known to be a lie is the truth till it is known to be a lie. But truth is relative, for it is a symbol of our individually unique perspective. As our individualities differ, so does our perspective. Hence, what I consider to be truth may well be your excuse for a compromise, worse still a fallacy to your innate sense of reason.
But who cares? Nobody really gives a shit! You think they do, misinterpreting good intentions for what it is not. They want to care, to love and to share, and hold your hand like they will always be there…believe it, and you will believe anything!
But there comes a time in your life when, overwhelmed by yourself and what burden you bear on this world, you begin to perceive the verity that everything besides your own existence is but a hovering shadow, every loving action geared in your direction is but a whisper of advice, a subtle drive of positive propagation, and you alone are the perfect light made to brighten your world, eliminating those shadows to reveal the essence of every living being, once silhouetted by the mysteries of their active minds, but now existing only as a unique piece of divine “tile” searching for its perfect position in the scheme of things, waiting to be dominoed into eternity; the Ideal.
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