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.
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