I write…

2

I WriteI write and a story is told. I write and through my words, I breathe life into mere items of my imagination. I write and smile, for out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks. And since my voice is inaudible, I choose to write and tell a tale. I write to express and impress, to share a joy and sorrow when either finds me. I write when grief makes me his companion and more so when death precedes him. I write when elated and beaming with delight, for the bliss makes me bubbly with words and my fingers tingle as I type on the keyboard.

I write with the hope that you will spare a moment and glance over this prose. Writing filled with emotions, or lies, or exaggeration, or hope, or despair, or tears, or smiles. Or just a flow of words. I write to evoke feelings and sensations. To appeal to all your senses, and make it sensual. I write for your enjoyment but much more for the satisfaction of having bared my heart out to the world.

I write to protect a secret and tell of how I did it. I write for my future to leave stepping-stones for others to follow me on my way up. I have written and I still do, so that tomorrow I may look back and see my growth. Or maybe wonder whatever happened to those hands that could churn a story out of nouns and verbs, and beautifully so.

I write today for I know neither what daybreak holds nor what nightfall might proffer. I write to leave a mark and to hold on to my history. Twining my tendrils on a log dead and decaying that is my past. For as I write, I live through those unusually painful periods, a time of transition between ages, with great defeats behind, leaving through abundant errors and forging on to boundless successes.

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I WriteI write for I feel the need to prove myself, to myself and to the world. I write to talk of her and me, or me through her. I write to tell of the hardships of the girl child. I write for her who still goes out to herd her father’s flock and her who raises her child, a product of rape in the slums. I write for her who only tears can give her account. And I write for the cowardly murderess who have aborted a month into the pregnancy. I write for her with big dreams but no one to hold her hand and hope that this will imbue her with courage. I write for her who lacks nothing and her life similar to a happily ever after fairy tale. For her with a plan of life that she holds on no matter the struggle it may take her through.

I write for the few who can be termed as handsome. Yes, I write for you, as you wander through the minds of the ladies. As you live in the moment of being wanted by the queens and whores. I write for those weaklings who have to hit the gym to amaze the female species. I write for those who have paid to have pregnancies to be terminated and those that know not that they are fathers to dead fetuses. I write for those dealing with rejection and those that have to view their egos through magnifying glasses. I write for those with empty wallets and half-baked looks, and no, I am not judging. I write for you all, for life will teach you to be a man.

I write as a way of lying to death though a myth it remains. For in the pretense that death is, my writing will live on and make me a god in my demise. I write to give my words weight until they can smash floors in. I write to keep your eyes open till they fall out or shut with sleep or boredom.

And with every story I write I’m filled with the anticipation of making myself irresistible and eloquent as a newspaper. I write this as a start of a journey for you and I. A walk, a marathon, a relay with you and I as team mates but you as the spectator and I as the runner. A drive on words, fueled by passion or lack of it and animated by descriptions that may be real or a meager trifle in the eye of my mind. And I write for you more than me, for without an audience my story remains untold, so hitch a ride and follow me as I write.

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