This was way before the time I “realized” that I was a lesbian. Way before I accepted it.

The mere thought of marrying a man caused me so much grief. 

Side note: that is what hell and purgatory looks like to me.

Men have always existed (unfortunately?)

They were always around but I never interacted with them in the free/ joyful way that I have always interacted with women. I don't even think I really like them (as a group). I always just thought: oh well, I guess I have to live around these people forever.

My interaction has always been because I cannot totally avoid them because they exist and we share the world with them whether we like it or not.

My sorta exposure to men has always been negative. My dad is the most horrible human I know (I don't know why god bothered with that one).

On the news: they stalked, raped and killed women, children, gay people, transpeople.

Online: they harass gay and queer people. They cause havoc. Send unsolicited dick pics. Leave scary comments. Leave rapey comments. Act erratic. Make everybody feel unsafe.

At home: They get treated like kings for literally just existing.

In the workplace: they are treated way better than everyone else. 

In the world: They rule.

They disrupt. They bring war. They do not care about women. They do not care that women are being mistreated. They protect abusers and rapists. They blame women for being victims. They egg their sexist derogatory friends on. They tell dirty embarrassing locker jokes. 

They think they deserve to never be rejected. They rape women for rejecting them. They hit women. They hate women. They seek to control women.

They control women's bodies. They defile women's bodies. They leave women crying. They deprive people of basic human rights. Would make condoms free and accessible but would never think of making menstrual pads and tampons free. Would not hesitate to be deadbeats but squirm at the thought of abortion.

They see women as tools to keep the next generations coming so that their reign never stops. See women only as reproductive- home making robots.

They only care about keeping their supremacy alive. They only care that they stay up there in the hierarchy so they do not (genuinely) try to help women get out of being oppressed because they would threaten their reign.

They lie a lot. The evidence is everywhere in the world. They are not good people. They have never been.

Considering all these things and thinking about the fact that I would have to marry that made me cry. 

I spent the bulk of my childhood avoiding boys and men, limiting my interaction with them to the barest minimum because that made me feel protected. I could not trust these erratic creatures to be normal and respectful.

My plan was to avoid them until I could build a planet and finally escape them but then adolescence and rational thinking came in: I would have to marry a man! Because women married men and women had to marry men to be considered normal.

I wanted to be normal. The thought of being anything but the norm was inconceivable to my teenage brain. I liked being liked. I wanted to be like. Being normal, hitting all the marks seemed like a strong prerequisite for being liked and normal and woman.

Song break! 🎶 I am woman! I am…something something 🎶

Anyway so I considered it.

Even then, I knew I would not love the man. Girls liked guys. I never liked guys, I never had crushes on them, always had crushes on women (yet somehow it didn't click for me that I was (am) a lesbian. Huh).

Anyway, it was what everybody did. It was what had to be done but the thought of doing in…living with a man presumably forever made death seem like not such a bad choice.

I think that helped me snap out of this “I must be what everybody would love and accept” narrative. It helped me discover what I really want. It helped me understand and be okay with who I am. I helped me in knowing the life I would like for myself. 

Not knowing would have meant conforming to everybody else's ideals. Conforming would have meant marrying a man. Marrying a man would be purgatory. Purgatory is hell and I might turn into the devil.

Just a sad bitter devil who sucks the joy out of every happy person I come across 🙃

I am at a point where I love being a lesbian. I think it's a gift, a superpower really because what do you mean I'll never be obsessed with a man to a point where his wrongdoings becomes excusable? To a point where his red flags start to look as green as spinach.

What do you mean I'll never have to defend a man's stupidity so that he picks me?

What do you mean I genuinely genuinely do not care what they think? Do not care to impress them socially. What do you mean I get just be me?

What I don't have to tailor my life to the suite “what men like”.

By the way, shout out to all the straight girls and women who do not all these ridiculous things. You girlies are the coolest.

Anyway, thank you so much for readinggggg,

Byeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I woke up this morning and saw that the time was 4:44. Yesterday I caught a 5:55. I don't know if these are real signs, it might just be an extreme case of “if you go looking for it, you'll surely find it.”

I want this to be a sign but what if it is not? What if I am just bamboozled by angel numbers?

Anyway, I'm listening to Jorja Smith's lost and found album as I write this to you. Still on the first song of the album so you're quite early.

The day before yesterday, I had a hair day. I cleared out my schedule for a retwist session. I like retwist/ hair days. They are one of my favorite days. 

On my retwist days, I pretend that I am everything I dream to be: A happy single (or booed up) woman in her late twenties/ early thirties. I imagine myself sipping red wine in my bathtub. Holding on to the porcelain tub, tapping my perfectly manicured fingernails on it as I think of my next story or article.

I imagine being frustrated at the lack of ideas, taking off my blue headscarf, letting my locs loose and drifting into the water and letting my locs float.

I imagine being out of breath, coming out with a gasp, laughing and wondering why the hell I had done that!

I imagine sipping the wine from the perfect glass, tapping my fingers on the stem of the glass and watching the petals in the water float.

I imagine coming out of the water all giddy because she's coming.

I imagine putting on the last scented candle as the doorbell rings. I contemplate grabbing my robe but decide against it. “Fuck it, she has seen me naked so what does it matter?”

I open the door. She is standing there, eyes wide in a mix of shock and awe (‘cos I'm cute!)

She gets in…

*cut to the next day*

It is still dark. Dawn. Early morning. I have to get up. I have to write. It is tradition, a well-kept ritual. It's been at least a decade and I still write in the mornings. I'm still up before everyone else. Up before her.

I contemplate just ditching the writing and just staying there: in her scent. In our perfect little world.

I want to. I reallyyyy want to but the annoying manager in my head orders me to get up and write. So I do that because I have to.

I tiptoe out of the room. She turns a bit as I open the creaky door. I frightened that I had woken her, relieved that she goes back to sleep.

I head to the open balcony. The one that overlooks the mountains or the lake, not sure yet. I just stare. I cannot write. Consider a coffee. Decide to just stay there and take in the beauty of the place.

Take in the beauty of my life. Our life.

I take the time to travel back in time. Back to the nervous insecure girl in Uni who only wanted locs. 

The girl who had worried that getting it would make mom mad. Make everyone look at her different.

“They'll know I'm gay,” She thought because she couldn't say the word lesbian yet.

She got the locs anyway, regardless of fear. Just like she got everything she had ever wanted. Everything she had ever dreamed of, regardless of the ever-present fear and insecurities.

The woman sighed with a smile.

She turned to see her lover at the doorway.

“You should have woken me.”

“I want to spend nights and mornings and forever with you.”

*blinking* *cricket sounds* *utter silence*

Anyway, I think this is important. I also think it is something that should be talked about more and not really from a morbid perspective (even though death is the literal definition of morbid) but from a “hey this shit is gonna happen one day so whatchu sayin’ fam?”

I used to be really scared of death when I was a kid. It was the kind of fear that is wrapped around intrigue. 

I have always been intrigued by death in a very maybe not normal way. I was too scared to explore this intrigue when I was younger but I dunno, the older I get, the less scared I am of the idea of death.

Again! I do not mean that in a morbid way! I certainly do not want to die yet. I still have a lot to achieve in this life so I'll be very disappointed if those assholes controlling the switch cut the lights off before I have done everything I should do.

I'll probably come back anyway so…

But like the stress of starting everything ALL OVER AGAIN. The stress of being a kid AGAIN. Eww no, let's just finish this time, okay?

So I was born six days after my grandma died. That is the most kinda uncomfortable thing about me. When I was younger (even till now) I got told a lot that I am my grandma reincarnated. Now, I don't know how I feel about that. I like to think of myself as my own person.

Anyway, I think about life and death in that context: as a continuum. Like an unending stream. A soul learns, a soul grows, a soul becomes. When a soul has grown and learnt to a point that learning becomes redundant, the soul is allowed to rest. Allowed not to return. To become at rest in nature. 

To flow and whisper and guide the still learning souls till they become.

It takes longer for some souls to become. Takes shorter for others but becoming is necessary to transcend.

I have always had this notion on life and death, not sure where it comes from. It just feels correct.

Anyway, in thinking about death, I like thinking about how I will like to go. I don't want to be buried. I don't want to be put in a box, I'm claustrophobic. 

I like the idea of cremation (although I'm worried about the ozone layer and what that will do to the ozone layer).

I like the idea of my ashes thrown in the ocean. In the sea. In the rain on a really windy rainy day.

I like the idea of being part of nature in that way.

I woke up with an epiphany: Adulting is what you make of it. Maybe my mistake was trying to be someone I'm not, an adult that I am not. I tried to get a job I hate because apparently that's what you're supposed to do. I was going to do a job that would make me too sleep deprived to write. I was going to take a job which would make me choose between it and writing. A job that would make me choose between surviving and living. Between living and thriving.

I am my own person. I make my own rules. I will make the life I want for myself. I will build a future that I will be proud of, it does not matter what anyone else has to say about it. It does not matter how anyone else feels about it. They have their own lives too. We were all given one each so I don't have to share mine. I don't have to live mine to please anyone else when they can easily live theirs to please themselves.

I know what I want…ish. Not completely, but I have a foggy sketch of the future I want.

I want to be the adult who has a job that she enjoys. Like Yagazie Emezi (I'm obsessed with her by the way). I want to be an adult who is not scared to take risks and step away from the unconventional if the unconventional does not serve her. I want to be the kind of adult who does not have to fake happiness because they are genuinely happy in their soul.

I want happiness. There can be happiness anywhere even in scarcity. I am not going to deprive myself of the future I want because I might be financially underprivileged. 

I deserve to have everything I want just as much as the next rich nepo baby.

I know what I want and I will get, so help me god… or the Universe or whoever is running shit up there!

This is about to be my boldest/ rudest essay, don't hate me…or maybe do. Actually don't. Just hear me out.

So, I want kids. I've always wanted kids, two girls who I shall name Chanel and Dior because…well I'm a basic bitch who is obsessed with high-fashion. 

I have always wanted kids but I'm not sure I want them to come from me. I like the idea of adoption. I enjoy the idea of fostering, having a bunch of kids who are not mine. A bunch of kids that I will love above all else.

I like the idea of mentoring. Of being there for people in ways that I wish someone was there for me. Of offering a platform to youths who have been shunned by the world.

I like the idea of having a large table filled with people half of which I do not even know.

That has been my thing. In my head for a long long time.

I think the world is better with children in it but I don't think the world deserves to have children in it. That might sound rude and offensive but it's the truth.

With the way kids are being mistreated everywhere. The way they are not protected at all. The way they are made to carry the burden of their parents’ failed hopes and dreams. The way they get burnt-out before sixteen. It is hard to say the world is ready to nature lives.

I don't think the world is ready to help shape futures. To help souls achieve their pre-set purpose on Earth. To let everyone, every kid be beautifully unique in the way the universe intended them to be.

I think about this a lot: do we need to stop having kids or can we all make a pact to change our ways?

Do we need to stop having kids or can we all make a pact to protect every kid we meet. To treat them like they are our own?

Do we need to stop having kids or can we all make a pact to start seeing kids as their own people. Their own individual souls not just an extention of us?

Do we need to stop having kids or can we all make a pact to stop pushing our traumas on to our kids. To stop raising broken humans. To stop raising traumatized adults.

(From Orange is the new black)

We need to learn to heal. Heal before you have kids. Please. Learn to control your emotions. Learn to deal with your anger. Learn to be an adult. Two kids cannot raise each other. Be an adult (mentally) before you have kids or don't have kids.

Not having kids is not a selfish decision, it is actually one of the most selfless things ever. You are self-aware enough to know your limitations so instead of traumatizing another soul, you choose to step back, what is selfish about that?

I'll actually argue that most people that have kids do it for very selfish reasons: continuity of bloodline (major reason). To improve public perception. To fit in with society (because that's what everyone else is doing). Because the Bible says so.

Not following the grain is a really tough thing to do but if following the norm will mean hurting yourself and others then don't do it.

I think the both sides can be right.

If you don't want kids because you don't want to traumatize them, that's good.

If you want kids and you know you're willing to work on being a better version of yourself so you can show-up for your kids in the way they ought to be shown up for, that's also good.

The both sides are good. You just have to take responsibility for your decision. Whatever it is.

There's music, my number one coping tool. There are books, a good book a day keeps the bad thoughts away. There's YouTube. YouTube has been one of my number one coping tool for a long time now. I have creators on there whose content help to keep my head intact.

In a world where nothing is certain anymore. A world were everything seems to be going out of the ordinary. Where things we thought could never happen in a million years are happening, we all need something from the ordinary to hold on to.

We all need something outside of ourselves, something outside of our own struggles to remind us that there might be light at the end of the tunnel. To remind us that even though it is still dark right now, we can still play, still laugh in the darkness.

Before music was that for me, books were that for me.

I could get lost in the pages of a book and forget things that haunt me. I could be so invested in imagining the words that time passes in seconds.

It was magical. It was euphoric. I want that euphoria for everyone.

When I first started writing, I was shocked that I could write. I do not remember having this gift as a child. I don't even remember trying to write fiction. I only know, I always had really wild imaginations. I would always dream up this larger than life scene. I would always get both terrified and fascinated by my nightmares but I never tried to put pen to paper because I couldn't imagine a world where I could write.

I could not imagine a world where I could be anything more than what everybody else around me was. Struggling. Trying to just get through the day without fainting to tough.

I couldn't believe in a world outside of that because I could not even see it. Not in words. Not in my imaginations.

I started reading in late high-school early Uni. This is when I started to see way beyond what was in front of me. Reading gave me the permission to dream. It gave me the permission to question. It removed all the constraints that I had been taught to have.

I started reading and never wanted to stop and then one day I discovered I could write.

The first novel I wrote was trash…cute-trash but still.

Reading made me see what I always had in me but never noticed: the ability to write.

Reading did so much for me and to me. I want others to experience it. I want others to experience the magic of reading, this is why I think books should never be a luxury. It should be accessible and affordable even to the poorest of the poor.

As one of the poor who did not realize how much books can heal, I now know how needed it is.

When I first started writing, I made a promise to myself: I will make my words as accessible as affordable as possible. It was important to me, it is important to me that people see way beyond their problems.  That they realize that being here still means you get to live and even though it might be too expensive to be out there from plane to plane exploring the world, that can exist in a book.

In an idealistic world, making books free would be very possible but it is not possible. 

Writers are people too. 

Most of them (us) Put our lives into this. Most writers are living way poorer than anyone else. Most writers continue to show up without food in their stomachs. They (we) choose to stay true to the craft even with the rampant spread of dishonest (AI) writing.

It is unfair to do all this and not get paid so saying books should be free is an unrealistic delusion.

What I can however say is, book should be affordable. It is however not a stipulation on anybody because people are going through very different things. It is just important to me that everybody gets access to books even though they don't have much.

I really hope it is as important to others too.

Let's heal the world one story at a time.

When people ask me what nationality/race would you like to come back as in your next life (If there's a next life). I always say Nigerian or some form of black…with locs (‘cos I'm not trading this in for nothing!).

Nigerians are the funniest, most creative, most hardworking people you'll ever meet. 

Now in terms of empathy…ehm…I'm not too sure. I'd say it's surface level (most times). The empathy na by connection.

To be deserving of most Nigerians empathy you have to be connected to them in someway. Most Nigerian (like most other people in this world) don't just feel for people just because. There has to be a linkage. Are you my mother's brother's sister? If no, get out! (A direct quote from my former HOD. No! Don't bring the torch out yet! She was only joking!)

Like most other people from other Nationalities, races and cultures, there has to be a layer of “imagine the person in that situation was your sister.”

It has to be a case of  “I know this person might not have been the most morally upright when compared to your notion of what “morally upright” is but imagine she was your sister or your ailing mother's brother.”

(most) People have to be in that position or see people they love being in that position to feel something. To feel empathy.

Humans in general (except for a few touched by the holy ghost, lol) don't just feel to feel. They feel because. The empathy is conditional. There has to be a reason and this reason to feel another person's pain has to outweigh the reason not to.

“Well I would feel bad about him getting killed but I can't because he should have known not to walk on that street at night”

Or the most common example. The stupidest (I know that's not a word. Leave me alone!) one.

“No man should ever raise his hands on a woman but she provoked him.”

So according to your idealism, if you provoke me I'm allowed to shoot you?

And not go to jail? 

All I have to tell the judge is: “I wouldn't have done it but he provoked me!”

Judge: Miss what sort of Provocation do you mean? Was there any form of abuse? 

: Nah. He just told me that I should get off the couch and find a way to contribute to the running of the household so I got mad and shot him *shrugs*

Now, with this analogy do you see how stupid that line of reasoning is? No? Alright, uh let's move on.

Even though we might not be fully there when it comes to empathy (not even halfway there in my opinion) what cannot be disputed is that Nigerians are givers.

Nigerians are good neighbors. Nigerians are what god meant when he said love your Neighbor as yourself. He actually meant be a Nigerian.

A Nigerian cannot see their Neighbor or friend suffering and not offer some sort of help. It is mostly advice but hey it's the thought that counts.

A Nigerian cannot not hear from their Neighbor for a full day and not check-in to see if they are good.

A Nigerian cannot see an old person's (or any person for that matter) grocery bag split on the road and not offer to help.

We (as a people) are genuinely good person…if we know you. If you are just another body on the news…we (most people) have to imagine you are our sister or neighbor to find empathy and I don't see that changing anytime soon.

You know when Chimamanda said “I like being Nigerian but Nigeria deeply frustrates me” I said oooh mother! Twinsies! what? Because true! Very true! Being Nigerian is one of the coolest qualities in the world. We have history, we have culture, we have very interesting people.

Spending five minutes with a very basic-very average Nigerian can easily be the best five minutes of your life.

Nigerians are smart. Nigerians are intelligent. Creative. Nigerians are good at improvising and making magic out of flint stones but even with all these qualities it is hard to not crumble when your own country, your own government is hell-bent on breaking you into nothing.

The problem of Nigeria can not just be reduced to one thing but if its origin should be theorized, I would say we are still dealing with historical wounds that have not been given the education, time and attention to heal.

Whether we want to admit or not, Nigeria is very tribalistic. The Igbos and Yorubas don't really like each other. The Hausas are somewhere in the middle. The less problematic once who I have this nagging subtle feeling do not really like the igbos or Yorubas but unlike the loud tribes, they stay quiet about their dislike.

This tribalism, can easily be traced back to the Nigeria-Biafra war (1967-1970). The wounds are still there. Igbo people still feel slighted. 

The Yorubas still hold that notion that Igbos are very problematic. 

Igbos still think Yorubas are flaky. They can never stand on business. They say one thing and end up doing another. You cannot fully trust them because even when you all agree to do one thing, they'll never fully commit to it (btw I'm Igbo so I know this part of the argument well).

With a country this divided, growth and prosperity is almost impossible.

We all want things to get easier. We all want the good life but that can sometimes mean turning against our own and supporting the obvious right choice.

During the last presidential election, I had a former friend tell me she was not going to vote for Peter Obi simply because he's Igbo and she does not like the idea of an Igbo man ruling the country.

Needless to say I cut her off quickly because bitch what??

Peter Obi was the obvious right choice in that presidential election. For the first time in a long time (almost) every Nigerian agreed.

For one, he can make a fully comprehensible sentence.

He will not go around embarrassing us in the UN or whatever internation convention they attend.

Everybody seemed to agree to keep the vagabond.

It was the first time I saw true unity amongst the very divided Nigerians.

We chanted Peter Obi's name at the top of our lung. I actually thought we were all in this together. I even went out of my way to move out of town I was in. I spent the money I did not have, traveled just so I could cast my vote for Peter Obi. For a better Nigeria but what happened? Some stupid secretly flaky people (like my former friend) bailed! 

In the usual Nigerian political standard, the election was rigged and the vagabond won.

Peter Obi won in Lagos (the most influential. The most populous state in the country), Abuja ( the Country's capital) as well as ten other states and somehow the Vagabond became president?

The thing I like about my country is that dem no dey fear face. We are audacious truth sayers. Nobody will lie to protect your fragile emotions.

They'll tell you to your face: yes the election was rigged. Yes Peter Obi was meant to win. Now that you know the truth you were craving, what are you going to do about it?? Nothing! Now sit down and enjoy this new dose of suffering. It's the premium package, you'll love it!

Ahhhhhh! Nigeria deeply frustrates me!

Honestly, for real-for real, I don't see a way out of this. Maybe we should all just lose hope and die of poverty and hunger? Because broooooooooo! It's not smiling.

I don't know o (remember that Ayra Starr meme, lol).

I don't know.

Guyyyyyyyyyyyyy.

Guys! When I tell you they wanted my life and then my soul after they've killed me, I'm not even joking! How can you tell me that I'll work sixteen hours a day (from 8am to 12am) and then get paid sixty thousand naira (approximately 42 dollars) in a month?

How?? Make that make sense!

Anyway I ran back home and never went back and now I'm back to square one: young, not dumb, broke and jobless.

I want to say the search continues but honestly at this point I'm so tired. Every job search has its own horrible unique experience.

It's so annoying and frustrating. Sigh.

Every single time I get into into the job market, I am reminded of how much I want out. I just started a new one after doing the last one for a week and I already feel out of place.

I know I should not be here. I know this is not what my heart yearns for but the thing about adulting is as an adult survival is necessary. It is important to learn how to leave the nest. It is imperative to learn how to survive outside the nest.

It is hard but necessary.

The thing is, I actually did not totally hate the last job. I could see myself doing it for a little bit. I had planned to do it for the rest of the year.

To persevere till I get something more remote but like every good thing, it did not stay for long (not sure it was a really good thing just saying…it was a good thing. The dream would be making money from things I really really like doing: writing and teaching (in the University. I do not have the patience for anyone below eighteen).

Anyway, that one ended because…I don't really know.

I got there on a regular Monday morning and suddenly my supervisor had resigned along with many other people and then we trainees stopped being assigned tasks.

Then they started to act like we did not exist. Then it started to feel like I was just wasting my transport fare but I kept going (don't know why). I continued going until it was just three trainees remaining then I realized they were taking the piss and then I stopped. Delved deeper into writing. I wrote a lot more than I had written in a while. 

I was starting to feel like I did not need a job, that I could keep trying to make this writing dream work. Then my friend called about an opening that she found at a hotel anddd now I'm here.

At a not so fancy-not that dingy hotel job, hoping I don't hate it.

Adulting is really hard. I need money but money and passion are not on the same lane. I am determined to keep writing. I just hope I never stop. I do not want to be a sad passionless adult.

The thing is…I do not believe (in God) but I do believe that there's something above the natural keeping us all remotely sane despite the crazy that is this world. I just don't believe it's a white bearded straight grandpa that (most likely looks like Santa Claus) in the sky.

But yet again I find myself praying to him. To god because that's what feel correct.

That's what I have been culturally trained to do: to pray to the bearded man in the sky who does not give a heck that kids are dying in wars but would not hesitate to strike a gay person dead.

I have been conditioned to hold my catholic medal that I only recently stopped wearing when the bus I'm in stops abruptly and causes a near-accident scenario.

I have been conditioned to beg for forgiveness when I get really anxious and I think the world is going to close in on me.

I pray even if I do not believe. I know the bearded guy wouldn't save me but I like the comfort of knowing I have someone in the sky looking out for me.

And that is the duality of life.

I do not believe but a enact acts of belief.

I think pessimistic thought but I give optimistic remakes.

I am a writer but I fear I might not be able to write  (knock on wood. god forbid! god forbid!).

I started doing this stupid thing to challenge my Christian culture. I started doing the unthinkable: writing god with a small g).

It felt scandalous at first but now, it kinda satisfying. I do it to prove a point to myself: I have won against their colonial manipulation.

Christianity is the only form of colonialism that is still at play till date. It is an obvious form of colonialism that nobody wants to see because it is very rooted in our everyday life that questioning it will mean questioning everything.

And decentering it will mean scattering the very foundation on which we stand. And if that happens, it would be scattered Earth and we will have to build again and building again is hard so we will rather stand on the faulty foundation and pray the house does not collapse one day.

There's duality in everything. 

Have you ever loved someone you hate? Have you ever loathed a community you adore? Have ever wanted to stay alive but not really? Alive but in a limbo where nothing can touch you?

I Don't know. I just thought I should talk about it.

All our phones were dead.

 I had to submit an assignment so I needed to power my phone but I did not have a Powerbank, my roommate (who is also my friend) had one. I should have asked her to help me out but I could not bring myself to ask. I could not bear the thought of being vulnerable so I just stayed and did not submit the assignment and waited for the light to be fixed to power my phone.

I was so lucky because the deadline for submission was moved forward so there was no real consequence for my foolishness.

However, my friend found out ‘cos I told her (jokingly) about this assignment I almost failed because of the light issue and she asked why I did not just ask her for her PowerBank.

When she found out she was so hurt because apparently I did not see our friendship strong enough for me to lean on her for even something as simple as a PowerBank.

I did not understand why she was hurt. To be honest, I kinda felt like she was being dramatic but I just said sorry (even though it felt silly and dishonest for me to say sorry) and moved on.

It's that and a lot of other experiences where I could have saved myself from a lot of stress by just asking for help but…it's just hard.

I hate the thought of bothering people and that's how I feel when I ask people for things, and it's funny when flipped because I don't mind people asking me for things. If I can provide it, I will. If I can't…well.

I think this hyper-independence, this not wanting to bother anyone comes from not having anyone to lean on as a child. 

It comes from knowing from a young age that love is very conditional, and that nobody truly loves you and that they would not truly love you if they truly knew you.

My family likes to think that we are close but we really aren't, we have never been…not truly.

My family is very homophobic and transphobic and all the all the phobic. You'd hate them if you knew them… well not all of them, I really like my older sister and my younger brother. My older brother is an asshole, my dad does not exist and my mom…well…she need a lotttt of therapy.

I really like my older sister and younger brother but I also know that I cannot truly lean on them because they are normal Nigerians.

Normal Nigerians are proudly homophobic. It is we screwed-up Nigerians that think homophobia is stupid.

It is normal to be homophobic in Nigeria. It is abnormal to care when a gay man commits suicide or is killed after being outed. It is abnormal to care that a lesbian is beaten for being caught. It is abnormal to be enamored by cross-dressers and trans-people.

Because of this dystopic reality, because of these differences in our moral compass it was really hard for me to learn that leaning on other people is normal. Because I don't even trust you! I cannot fully trust you! You laugh when people like me are killed and harassed! 

You think it's funny that that effeminate man is being bullied! You think all gay people deserve death and then hell!

If I get harassed and murdered will you even mourn me or will you be too ashamed to?

It's is this crazy need to compartmentalize, this crazy awareness (from a very young age) that although they are your family, they are also your greatest opp. 

They will push you to the wolves to keep their robe white. They will cast you out just to keep a relationship with an imaginary entity. 

So no! I'm not leaning on that. I'll find another way to keep staying alive.

Another reason for my hyper-independence, I think, is my mom. She does this thing where she gives you nice things without you having to ask and then turns around to berate you for not getting them by yourself.

It is a trap! So I think everybody is trying to trick me when they do nice things for me unprovoked. I am always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for them to say something about it so I can go “oh there it is” with a smirk and then convince myself that asking and taking is weak.

It is automatically. I don't even know that I am doing it.

Anyway that's all for today!

Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!

It's like: “The Adulting Journals” like something that should be followed by a column or a semi-colon or some other very serious-very professional punctuation mark.

It sounds like *clears throat for added effect* 

“ The Adulting Journals: An anthropological study on adults who adult right (said in full Bridgeton accent mind you) or “The Adulting Journals: a indepth look on the psychological and physiological chasm between the societally well-adjusted adult and the…let's just say… flailing one”.

You probably read the title and thought “waow! This bitch is such an adult! Like she's actually doing it!”. If that thought is yours…well, you've been fooled. 

Happy April fool (I know it's not April 1st anymore but yeah… April fool)

Anyway, I decided to start this because I did the most adult thing I have done ever. No I'm not pregnant. I mean I got a job! Yay! Or not! But we'll see!

So I saw an ad on Facebook. Apparently, this Healthcare company needed customer service representatives.

I like the thought of being a customer service representative because I imagine all you have to do is sit on a rollie chair. Use the company's WiFi a full season of orange is the new black. Download your favorite YouTube videos. Occasionally take calls (occasionally do your real-actual job, lol). Set your alarm for 5. Mutter “finally” when your alarm ring and do it all again.

So yeah when I saw the AD, I was like Yes! I didn't think I would get it though, I thought they knew better but somehow I got it?

It's crazy. Me! Like you hired me…to do a job… *stares blankly*

Anyway, all jokes aside (if you cannot read the sarcasm, I'm informing you there are multiple), i was actually excited for this job. I hoped I would get it. I put in my best in tailoring my CV to the job description. I wanted the job because from the company seemed different from the others I had seen.

First of all, it is owned by young people and they said it's fine to come in in jeans and Tee but don't do too much. I don't think some people heard “don't do too much” part but we move.

Secondly, the time duration is very reasonable. It does not seem like they are after my life…and my soul too when I die. No, it seems like they have kind sensible people on their management team. I like that.

Third, it is a little bit far from my home. This is both a blessing and curse because while I appreciate not ever running into my annoying community people, transport fare is kicking my ass!

And fourth (this one I found out after getting in) there's no overbearing supervisor breathing down your neck. There's a target, you meet your target you're good, you don't meet your target, you're fired. I thought that was cool at first but now being in the system…I'm scared. It is scary. Can I order a glass of an overbearing supervisor please?

So yeah let's get into the breakdown of my week.

MONDAY:

Monday was calm. 

I started with excitement for me. So we had done the interview. I got in, Monday was my first day so I showed up, lost my way a bit, ended up in a really ugly badly built brown building and thought “ohh. Th…this is it?” But thankfully, that was not it. I found the real building, got in, got ushered into an office upstairs for their orientation.

It was a large office. So me and other newbies were there. Can you imagine this people had us waiting there for three hours! Before the orientation was done.

We ended up not doing anything on Monday. We just got assigned our supervisors, rolled around, used the WiFi and got to know each other.

TUESDAY 

I woke up feeling like “oh God I hate waking up this early”. I managed to drag myself out of bed and on the road. Once I got a taste of the morning Lagos road air, my mood got better.

There's something about the how early Lagos wakes that is almost poetic.

Anyway, got to work, expected my supervisor to say something about why the hell we were hired but no, home girl just continued on her phone the entire time.

She waited for it to be 4:30 before addressing us. Great another waisted day!

WEDNESDAY 

On Tuesday, my supervisor had said she would give us our first tasks so I was excited to start (I know…slow down!). Anyway we kept waiting for her to do something but she stayed put on her desk. I started doubting if she knows that she's our supervisor. I mean, we know but does she know??

Anyway, I got fed up with the…everything and so I decided to talk to her, to let her know that we were hired to work *gasps* shocker.

Anyway, after confirmation from everyone on my team. After fidgeting a lot and reminding myself that if they fire me I can go back to writing. After reminding myself that I can make something out of nothing. After the urging from my team mates (who by the way could have gone by themselves!) I went to talk to her.

And surprisingly, she was super cool. Just calm, polite. I felt ridiculous for fidgeting so much.

Anyway we got our tasks. We called the people we were meant to and that was that.

THURSDAY 

We did nothing. 

FRIDAY

Good Friday so home.

I'm saying all these to say, I don't know if I actually have a job because nothing is happening. A job is supposed to work you to your bone, this one isn't and I'm concerned.

My seat mate were literally talking about it on our way home. We looked crazy talking about how worried we were that we were not being stressed by our job, lol.

Anyway, let's see.

Apart from the actual work stuff, other stuff happened. For example, a random guy paid for my transport one day. He literally walked me to the bus stop which was very far from where we were. Anyway…to each their own.

Another random guy is trying to act like a wingman for his friend who I know likes me.

I plan to let him down slowly because…ewww.

I plan to dress very masc next week. If he still likes me then he's gay.

Anyway, that's all (in Miranda Priestley's voice)

Till next timeeeeeeee!

Bye.

At this point, you are presented with two options: attempt to beat the system…keyword: attempt or do whatever the hell your mates are doing.

Attempting to beat the system is a stupid decision if you ask me but I've never claimed to be the wisest.

To attempt to beat the system, you have to accept two fact: you'll most likely be poor forever. You will be okay with being a foolish failure who puts in their best every single time regardless of how stupid trying becomes.

You'll be that monkey who keeps on climbing to the top of the tree in search of a way out regardless of how many times it gets electrocuted by the naked wires around.

It is hard to attempt to beat the system. It is hard to make it with your integrity and humanity still intact. It is hard to not do what your mates are doing.

It is hard not to just conform, not to bend yourself until you become unrecognizable. It is hard remain you when you watch people who change into the worst versions of themselves get rewarded and praised for it.

Before we continue, I would like to explain what MAKING IT means to ME

Unfortunately, unfortunately, it is very unfortunate that in this movie I am dumb-dumb Andy! I really wish that I could be Miranda Priestley.

Miranda is ambitious. Unlike Andy, I am quite…very Ambitious but unlike Miranda the thought of hurting anyone else to get to where I need to be is disgusting to me and that's the problem…

It's the fucking principle! The stupid principle is the freaking problem!

If I am putting something out there under my name, it has to be done exclusively by me.

 It has to not be inspired by “what sells these days”. It is instead inspired by passion and my stream of creativity…whatever the hell that is! *proceeds to roll her eyes*

It has to be inherently me and I have to think it is good enough to be seen by others and I am very hard to impress, especially when it comes to me.

With others, I'm very encouraging and I genuinely think they are doing well but with me I'm not like that. I am very critical of myself. I'm like that annoying manager that micromanages everything. That annoying manager that will nag you to death about the littlest thing.

I am not really someone who's motivated by money. I know I need money to keep living but other than that…

I really like having a purpose, waking up everyday with a smile on my face because I am excited to do something. I like feeling like I am doing something, something that makes my heart beats faster and my brain go “you really are that bitch!”

Money keeps you alive. It gives you choices. It can be a source of happiness and freedom. It saves you from a lot of bullshit but when there's nothing else to you apart from your bank account, it is easy to feel empty…I wouldn't know but in someway, I feel like I do know.

It is fun to have passion and purpose and all that good stuff but when reality crashes in, it really crashes in and then you start to question if you've been doing it wrong.

You start to wander if you should stop doing too much and just do what your mates are doing because they are making a lot of money while doing these things.

They are the ones who get praised and borderline worshipped.

They are the ones with the proud parents. You are the one with debts and passion that you quickly realize cannot feed you.

When people start telling you things like “wow you really can write. You should be doing way better. You should be making way more. I'll show you how but you have to you know…uhm…lose the principle” 

You start to wonder if they are indeed right.

In a world where AI writing has become the order of the day. In a world where this dishonest AI writers are making numbers that you probably cannot count up to, it starts to seem silly when you keep bringing up “the principle” and our duty to the art form and how stories should be foster human connection and how this cannot happen if the thing writing it is just sockets and wires with no heart.

It is hard but the truth is I know I'll be fine…eventually. I write because I like writing, money is a by-product of that passion. Money will come and it will come without me having to sell my soul to the motherboard…

AN ALTERNATIVE 

I've been trying to get a job so that I don't get tempted to sell my passion completely to capitalism. 

I really want something that can gives me time to write the stories that I love to write. I'm not even asking for too much, just two or three hours before sleep takes over.

I've been trying to find one of those but to no avail, everything I have found wants your entire time, your entire life…and your soul too, when you die.

You essentially have to make a decision: passion or money and mind you the money would hardly sustain you for a month. After your monthly expenses, it's done, you're lucky if there's anything left for snacks talkless about food.

So essentially, you'll be working to keep working. Working to keep living. Once you stop, you're done, no more money and in this capitalist ever that can essentially mean no more living.

I think that's an example of the system being stacked against us. 

Why don't they give people access to jobs with reasonable durations? I am talking specifically about people without degree (because I haven't been able to collect that yet). 

It is sad that a company owned by another human would build a system where no one can thrive outside of the company. Where no one can work while simultaneously building the life they want with the passion they have.

I think this is intentional. I know it is intentional.

 Like my younger brother discovered last week, it's all about control.

It's so funny. He woke up one morning and rush to me like: “I've finally figured it out, it's all about control!” I was confused like “what?”

“It's all about control. Poor people are trying to make money so they can take control of their lives and choices. Rich people already have that so they seek to control others so some ego boost. It's all about control!” He yelled like he has just figured out the secret of the world.

“And you're just figuring that out?” I said in my usual cynical sarcastic way.

“Well, good morning to you, welcome to the world newbie” I laughed.

So yeah, it's all about control.

Unfortunately, I only know the problem, not the solution. I just think we cannot let the robots take over the creative arts. I just think we have to write from a place of passion not just what sells.

I just think making money the right way is gratifying. It is hard but in the end, it is rewarding. 

That being said, please check “stories stories my stories my crazy roommate told me” out and pleaseee buy me coffee whenever you can. Help a struggling creative today…that low-key sounds cool. I might switch the “buy me coffee” thing for that.

Okay bye.

Everybody…well not Everybody, the YouTuber I just watched about how she's so lucky because she was able to get a house that is East facing. That way she can watch the sun rise and her house will be filled with natural light and warmth and she will escape the usual rainy/ dreary London weather.

I watched this and thought, how dreadful?! 

*throws on a villainous shawl*

I do not want an East facing house! I want a…what's the opposite of East?... West. I want a west facing house so that I can watch the sun set and avoid the intrusive sunlight during the day.

I want a lonely dreary house that looks like a sad governess had once lived in it.

She helped raise those bratty British royal, when they grew up they forgot all about her so she lived alone writing all the royal gossip in her journals that I will surely find.

I really want a lonely dreary house by the sea but I am scared of it being hunted… I don't do hunted.

I am bored! Everything is so fucking repetitive. Everything is so dreary. I'm starting to think that I might indeed need a life. Maybe real actual human friends, ewww no!

Uh okay, maybe an exciting new side quest…hmm too much energy needed. Plus I'll have to actual care so…

Okay maybe a hobby? Rolls eyes.

Ahhh! I'm bored!

*scrolls through social media* 

Same old. Same old.

Sad people. Happy people. Funny people. Hopeful people.

Sets phone down.

*tries to nap*

This fucking heat!

Honestly what have we done to our climate?!

*Goes into a Greta Thunberg rant*

Stops for a second to accommodate an intrusive thought. 

Gets up and tries to catch a flake of dust.

Fails. Argh!

Bored. Hot. Exhausted from doing absolutely nothing.

*Tries to do something*

Read a book?

Too much words. Can't focus.

Watch a movie?

Hmm no.

Sleep?

Too hot.

Scroll?

Not exciting.

Friends?

Ewwww, I'm too cool for that.

For what? Friends?

Yes!

I am usually the first to think of a solution, an explanation as to why “this too shall pass” but lately, recently, I cannot hold anybody's hand anymore, even mine is shaking.

I tell everybody everything would be alright even when I am not so sure. I hide my own emotions to be stoic for everyone else. I ignore my own load because I was conditioned to accommodate others, to lighten other people's load while I rot on the inside.

The rules are simple: Mom talks, we listen. Mom cries, we comfort. Mom crashes out, we accommodate. We stay silent. We are stick figures undeserving of a crash out. We are pawns with no storylines of our own, with no real hurt, no real reason to cry because “you have not gone through half the things I've gone through”.

Our weaknesses are not strengths because we have not gone through enough to be considered strong so the least we can do is brush up the silver armor of our strongest soldier while we rot in bronze.

Recently, I have stopped doing that. I have been numb, no kind words for anyone, no mean words for anyone, no words for anyone. Just silence and occasional sighs.

I am trying to hold my own hands. I am letting go of other people's hands. I am sorry if that feels selfish but yet again I don't mind being selfish if it means I escape this.

I wished I could make their dreams my dreams, their passions, my passion.

They looked so sure. They were not particularly good at school but they knew. They knew a lot more than book-smart me knew.

They knew themselves. They knew their purpose. They knew the steps needed to get to that purpose. They knew that even if they fall a thousand times, they would rise up again because the purpose was too bright to ignore.

They knew they would be what their soul wants for them. They knew they would fulfill their Chi's wishes for their lives, and I hated that because I envied it.

That knowing so strong that it could burn off any slither of doubt.

That knowing that I did not have.

That knowing that I wanted to have.

That I wanted to know.

The first dream I had was to be a doctor. It was practical, fool-proof, tested and trusted. 

Tested and trusted because it was a dream others had dreamt up for me, and I trusted others more than myself so I reckoned that they were right. Besides, it was my one shot at having a velvet red-diamond shiny dream.

It was practical, fool-proof but still a dream in the was dreamt up for me. It did not feel right but all the pieces fit perfectly. It was not mine but it had all the characteristics of a dream:

Something to look forward to. Something that feels so far away, largely unattainable. Something special.

I remember reading “gifted hands” by Ben Carson, seeing how special he is, how people adore him and thinking: yes…adored.

Looking back in retrospect, it is obvious that I did care much for the science of medicine, only the feeling of being adored.

Going to Uni, meeting real doctors and medical students showed me that even that is not the case. 

Not every doctor ends up being adored like Ben Carson but every doctor…every good doctor has to be okay with sacrificing every part of themselves every single day.

In med school, sleep is a myth. Paranoia and anxiety is the normal.

It takes a certain type of person to be a doctor, a certain personality type: borderline egocentric, very competitive, a realist (not a dreamer), a bit of a bitch/dick, someone who believes in doing things for the greater good that they can not yet see, a believer, a savior.

I was not that person. I am selfish, a selfish-dreamer who is sometimes selfless. I cannot understand putting other people above my mental health. I cannot understand throwing a friend under the bus for a spot. I cannot understand pretending to be someone's friend just to milk knowledge out of them and then discarding them after you've gotten the spot.

Medical students are dicks, most of them are, the ones who succeed are. I know that first hand.

After medicine, after the frustration of not getting the dream that I thought I deserved, a dream that I had claimed as my own, I was once again dreamless.

A flailing chaff just wading through the world with no spark whatsoever.

Then out of nowhere the next dream came.

This was the first dream I ever dreamt up for myself. The one dream that exists in the vacuum that is my mind.

There's no glory attached to it. No representation of glory I could see. If anything, it was a laughable dream because everybody else who had had this dream seem to hate the reality of it.

Everybody except one. Only one person seemed to enjoy the life they have.

My H.O.D

We got close right after everybody warned us (my friend and I) that he is the worst lecturer ever. The most ruthless. You should never look him in the eye, they said.

I soon realized that he really isn't any of those things. He is very very strict, I will admit. He hate useless conversations, sycophancy, over-familiarity and disrespect, which isn't a crazy ask.

My friend and I started getting close to him unexpectedly. 

We genuinely enjoyed his lectures. He taught in an unconventional way. Not really unconventional-unconventional but it was different from how the other lecturer taught (if they did at all).

He would start by asking tricky psychological questions. Like when we were learning the physiology of sleep, we got to the part about hallucination and he told a story about a friend of his in Uni who had a little too much to drink and abruptly starting running saying that a bear was chasing him.

They of course could not see the bear but the man saw the bear. Even when he was sober you could not tell him that there was no bear.

After that story we had a little debate about truth and fact. 

My take: truth can be different for different people hence it is not universal but fact is universal because it is fact.

His take: fact is as unreliable as truth because fact is the fact-maker's truth and since we've established that truth is subjective and sometimes untrue why not fact.

Our resolution: evidence makes facts facts, without evidence it is just a subjective truth. A potentially untrue-truth.

We all concluded that the drunk man was saying his truth and the sober people were also saying their truth but the fact is that there's no evidence of a bear, therefore there was no bear.

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I enjoyed arguments like this with my H.O.D and I like he never saw any argument as too stupid to have.

It was my first encounter with intellectual arguments. One that is not won by raised voices but by the presentation of facts.

I also like how he was always ready to listen to my “I think I just found the cure to cancer rants”. He would smile quietly as I presented my idea in a “duh! Why didn't anyone think about this way”.

After the rant, my H.O.D would lean back up in his seat.

“I must commend your enthusiasm but as a physiologist you should know that…” and then I would realize that people probably taught about that but there are unignorable holes in that plan.

He never said “this is above your level” like some of the other lecturers who are so quick to dismiss any potential academic banter. He would instead take his time to explain things as best as he could.

The icing on the cake is how open minded he is. There was this time we were having a lecture about the hypothalamus and it's (I think) pre-optic area which is responsible for sexual behaviors (and attraction).

He paused and turned slowly to the class.

“Do we all agree that being homosexual is a scientific defect?” He asked.

Almost everyone raised their hands up. Only me and two other people in the class had frowns on our faces.

The class divided into two: the (apparent) homophobes and the three of us. We argued while he said nothing. 

The class soon quieted down as we waited for him to support one group.

“The fact that you think that way is a testament to your malign character,” he said to the group of (apparent) homophobes.

“If you still have the mindset that your way is the only right way then you have a lot more growing up to do,” he said to the obvious dismay of the other group.

It was things like that that give me my first dream: to be a lecturer (researcher) like my H.O.D.

The word “writer” is so deep and layered that no writer wants to claim it. At first. 

We say things like “I write…sometimes.” “I doodle…in my journal.” “not a writer but I have written some things though.” to get around actually calling ourselves what we are WRITERS.

Ouuu, I cringed when I wrote that and immediately went into my “I doodle sometimes” mode.

Why do we do that though? What is it about writers calling themselves writers what we want to stay away from? What is it about claiming that title that makes us shy away from it?

My first thought is the history behind that word. The icons. The greats.

Writing for a long time has been seen as a serious art, a sacred art. Something sanctimonious.

It is sorta like a highly revered almost spiritual sect that not everybody gets inducted into. It is sorta this very exclusive group that you have to be invited into.

You cannot put yourself into this club, no, someone has to validate your skill and passion for you to get in. Someone has to whisper to the admin of this sect that “you're valid” for you to be able to claim this title but the gag is nobody knows who the admin is!

Nobody knows who the whisperer is so every writer is stuck rejecting this title because they think that they are not worthy of it because this unknown admin has not inducted them into it yet.

Writing comes with so many rules, and restrictions and rigidity. It is like ballet in a way.

But I feel like it should not be like ballet, it should be freer, it should be more impulsive, it should just be…whatever.

With Ballet, it is easier to follow the rules because there's usually choreography to follow, so essentially you are working to make that choreo look and translate perfectly.

With writing, there's no choreo. Most of  the time, you don't know what the F you are doing. 

Other times, you know what you want to do to an extent but even that is tentative because shit happens in writing and the characters just do things and it's hard to follow the rules because the stream of creative consciousness that you are trying to follow is not even clear.

But then you can do that when you edit but yet again I feel like over-editing to be stylistically correct can sometimes take away the essence of the story.

Some sentences are meant to be scattered. Some should not even be grammatically correct. Some sentences are meant to make sense to some people while others understand without really understanding.

Now don't get me wrong, I think literature should be comprehensible. I don't believe in writing jargon and calling it art. I just think sometimes the messiness that comes with being human seeps into our writing and that should be allowed.

I have learned how to think as I write. I am really proud of that. I used to just follow the creative stream as it comes. 

I never used to filter out any errors. I used to try to be as fast as my mind. To write the words as quickly as they come without caring about punctuation and other grammatical features.

I just used to write and not edit and have this artistic arrogance of “well if they get it, okay. If they don't, it's whatever” but I've learned that that is stupid. Don't do that.

There's a difference between writing for yourself and writing to be read. To be read is to be understood (to an extent because somethings cannot be understood and when you explain too much it becomes an article, not fiction.

Writing to be read means writing for both yourself and others and (unfortunately) you have to be comprehensible. 

You have to write what can be read. 

You cannot just write the gibberish that only your soul speaks. You have to write in a language that conveys the feelings in the best way it can be conveyed.

And yes you have to EDIT (I'm speaking to myself here).

So now, back to the question: why do writers hesitate to call themselves writers.

I don't think it's a humility thing. I genuinely think it is because of the imposter syndrome that we (well some of us) feel.

There are the greats: The Toni Morrisons, the Alice Walkers, the Buchi Emechetas (who I absolutely adore.  Her book “second class citizen” is just the best), the Flora Nwapas, the Chinua Achebes, the Wole Shoyinkas, the Ruskin bonds, the Jhumpa Lahiris,  the George Martins, George Orwells, the Nadine Gordimers, The Audre Lordes, The Ngūgī wa Thiong'os.

There are the icons: The Chimamanda Adichies, the J.k Rowlings (controversial, I know), the Abdulrazak Gurnahs, Elizabeth Zandile Tshele (Noviolet Bulawayo), Chinelo Okparanta, Nnedi Okorafor e.t.c

There are the writers that are becoming iconic: the Akwaeke Emezis (everything they write is iconic!). The Joy Umebinyous (I love her book “questions for Ada”), Uzodinma Iweala (will be reviewing one of his book soon), Chimeka Garricks (the author of my favorite short story collection “a broken people's playlist), David Levithan, e.t.c.

So with this line-up of talented people where do you place? Where do I place?

I guess that's why it's hard for me to call myself a writer sometimes because the word “writer” is doused in so much serious greatness that wearing it becomes burdensome.

It becomes something to prove. It becomes an eternal aspiration that is difficult to claim. That's why people say “I am an aspiring writer” even though you just have to write but does writing even make you a writer?

Does singing make you a singer?

Does acting make you an actor?

Is the label in the action or is it in the time spent becoming?

Ahhhhhhhh. Questions for Ada! Luckily, I am not Ada.

(Found this on Instagram (by Raechill books) right after writing this so I had to add it… just replace author with writer for me…for now).

For someone who has convinced themselves that they can write, I often having nothing to write about. No topic, no direction, just air and wind and confusion.

It is hard having nothing to write. The uncertainty is killing. It's like the universe has decided to give you the most cruel punishment by taking the one thing that defines you. The one thing that makes you you.

When there's just air and wind and confusion, when nothing coherent comes to mind, when the words become fickle, when they drift away from your mind like they are being chased be demons…who are you?

Definitely not a writer. Not in that moment. 

You are just…