I remember wanting to write more than I ever wanted to breathe. And in so doing I became possessed by voices that rested on my shoulders shouting at my ears to tell their tales. At first I thought they were angels sailing me to the wonderland at night, neither were they demons, but in time I realized it wasn’t so, I had to make that which was numb feel, and in my growth, through words I had to create life from that which had dessicated, such as old dusty books and forgotten old words in tarnished manuscripts inherited from my grandfather. I found abode in the lonely embers of the dark where I became repulsive to light. I strived to create light from the dark because even in the dark lied eternal symphony of beauty, that we often tend to ignore, tell me though, if there were no darkness in the beginning would He have said that, “let there be light??” Yet, even when He gave you the light you still immersed yourself in the dark.
Knowing that darkness could coexist with the light. Knowing that these two voices rested on my shoulders. Knowing that He made me this way, that he chose me to bear the suffrage of men in my mind, that I could live ten lives at the same time and impact lessons from my tales, that He chose me to have this gift. That I couldn’t give life to that which had already died, but He let me have the power and freedom to create characters, give them name, breathe life into them, and take it from them at will, still I searched for perfectionism. Even though He had already approved me and accepted me in his eyes, for God himself calls upon writers the same way prophets were in the old times, still I had to seek approval in the eyes of the human kind. I had to seek approval in your eyes. And it was in your eyes that I learnt of rage and anger, a deep seated form of loathe and regurgitation. It was in your eyes that I learnt that men could do barely forgivable deeds with no remorse whatsoever. Like steal from the people and claim that you’re a leader chosen by God. Like look at other’s skin colour and call them by that, deem their race inferior and put them in shackles. It was in your eyes that I met darkness for the first time. And I loved it, for I was just like you. Of the same kind.
In my search for perfectionism, you accepted me in my extraordinary state, and over the years I struggled not to resume the state of normalcy because you expect so much from me, even when you know that writers are people just like you. You pose many questions when you know with absolute certainty that writers are no gods, but men with vast imagination. So I started small with scribbles on a note, that with time saw to it chanting my name everywhere I trailed. You gave me snaps when I needed them, when I wrote of punchlines, and amidst the music I heard your whispers saying, “he is good.” I had created a name for myself, so as I stood there clandestinely with glamour I needed a break off you to recollect my thoughts. You came around and called out to me from my hiding saying, you needed my art, saying that my art gave you something, a reason to wake up everyday, a reason to sail through, and in that moment, a spell was casted, I knew what He always wanted me to do with my gift. To give hope. To cherish memories of the lives that are gone and the promise of the future that is yet to come. To appreciate laughter and smile through sadness like it never hurt you. To walk through death as a medium for a greater purpose, and face the dark with confidence ridden in your laces, that even though sometimes you feel left out in the darkest of pits, you’ll never be alone.
Then comes a time when everything outgrows you. Your mates. Your friends and family, constantly reminds you the need to find a good paying job. But in you the only thing that makes you happy is writing. So you struggle to find means to turn words into dimes, so you could live a life and provide for your family. In your strife, writer’s block hits you so hard that you begin questioning whether you are who you claim to be, a writer. Words become superfluous. Even though when you write a thought so fresh and raw, millions will adulate you, but none will drop cents into your pockets, but it no matters because you do it not for money but for passion. It become so hard, when you’re a writer and you want to be a professional one. The kind read so vastly from one sea to the next. The kind that mends broken souls and gives them hope. Where are the ropes.?
So before writing this, I had a convo with a friend who had so much to say about me. Like she knew me better than I ever knew myself. She said that writers are genuinely hard to understand. That they know everything. That they ain’t imperfect, and that, often made them look for perfection in everyone. In my defense, I said, it ain’t my fault. It’s not my choice to be who I am.
…….
As written by Phill Ibsen
(Master of Descriptions)
Heart_Art_Poetics
2018
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