i, Write

Someday, I will be one of the greatest writers Africa has ever seen. For now though, I'm working hard at it, learning and improving my writing everyday.

[thewriterandi]

Wonder Woman Certified Fresh

[thewriterandi]

I have a theory.

That people don’t fall in love with people.

They fall in love with memories.

With ideas.

With the whispers of buried yearnings.

With hope.

Hope of things to come.

Hope of things to change.

Of things we can be.

Or would be.

Or wish we could be.

We search for these things in wrappings of hair and flesh. Seek them in glinting eyes and listening ears, the parting of lips.

Those secret things rooted in who we are and the memories of who we’ve been.

But it’s all fantasy in the end.

So I have a theory about love, and soul mates, and the happily-ever-after.

I have a theory that not one of them exists.

[thewriterandi]

(Irony of My) Ode to a Lack of Self-Awareness

When we stood before this tiny piece of land we bought together

I turned to you and asked: What are we going to build?

“We can build anything we like. So long as we don’t have to live in it.”

So…anything except a house? I asked, confused. Nonetheless excited.

“Anything except a house,” was your response.

And so I dug a foundation with my heart and my soul and my hands.

I laid brick and bent iron and thatched roofing.

I looked at my nails and I could not tell where red clay ended and my blood began.

But when I looked up from my work, I saw you were unhappy.

“This building needs more rooms,” you said. “Several rooms make a greater number of rooms than just one room.”

I nodded and agreed, because you knew these things better than me.

And so I tore down our building and raised up something bigger.

I thought a hundred rooms would make you feel safer.

But when I looked down from the top floor, I saw you were unhappy.

“This building needs more corridors. More corridors is a better amount of corridors than one corridor.”

I nodded and agreed, because you knew these things better than me.

And so I tore down our building and raised up something higher.

Certainly, a thousand corridors would make you prouder.

But when I looked through the window, I saw you were still unhappy.

“This building needs more doors. Don’t you know that a single door is the singular worst number of doors?”

I nodded and…agreed. Surely, you knew these things better than me.

I tore down our building and raised up something colossal.

I met you on the front porch and finally you seemed happy. Happi-er? Happy-ish? Well, less distressed.

It’s very much like a house though, I said, glancing uncertainly back at what we’d built.

“It’s not,” you said. “It’s not a house. It’s perfectly not a house at all.”

And you were right. What a perfectly not-a-house-at-all we’d built.

For in it, I never could seem to find you except for when you wanted to be found.

The corridors confused my way except for when you needed them to lead me to you.

As for the doors, such funny things, they seemed resolved never to let me out.

They banged in the dark of night though, ever willing to let you in.

Still, I would knead your beautiful feet every time you came

On our big white not-a-bed-at-all

I soaked every lamentation from your beautiful mouth

Keenings of the weight of the world on your beautiful shoulder

The breaking of your beautiful back

“They all want too much from me.” And I agreed

“They don’t see just how much I sacrifice.” And I agreed

“Look at the blood and sweat I put into this place!” And I…froze.

Surely, you did not mean this very building. This our not-a-house-at-all.

I looked you in your beautiful eyes.

“Even this place is a line on my long list of chores. No offense, but of course it is. Only a house that is barely a house when it is trying to be a house is the best kind of house to have.”

The chill held. And held. Then passed. I kneaded your feet.

 I had worshipped at this temple for so long

Treated this castle like refuge

Made this building my home

That I had never considered that it could be anything but

Least of all to you.

 The Cold Winds came, and our not-a-house-at-all did little to stave off its fingers.

I shivered in our not-a-living-room-at-all, drinking hot not-a-tea-at-all from my favourite not-a-mug-at-all, and I was…

Alone.

How did I end up in this massive place all alone?

Was it possible…

That maybe this land never belonged to us? It only belonged to me?

I had turned to you and asked: What are we going to build?

And what you had truly answered was, “You can build anything you like.

So long as I don’t have to live in it.”

Somehow I had misheard you. Misunderstood you. Or maybe, I hadn’t at all. Maybe I just wanted to pretend.

Once, you said to me that people will only treat me the way I allow myself to be treated.

I think that I agree.

So for the last time, I tore down this building, this fantasy, that I built alone and walked away.

“I already knew it wasn’t going to last. I expected it,” I heard you whisper.

Well, you do know these things better than me

Don’t you?

[thewriterandi]

On 2016 (in October)

It’s midnight in October, and I’m reflecting on 2016.

I just finished Amy Schumer’s book “The Girl with the Lower Back Tattoo” (God I love Amy Schumer). 

It’s been a good year for reading. It’s been a GREAT year for reading. This year alone, I have read the entire Harry Potter series (7 books),  “Things Fall Apart” by Chinua Achebe, “Bream Gives Me Hiccups” by Jesse Eisenberg, The Magicians Trilogy by Lev Grossman (3 books), the Abhorsen series by Garth Nix (3 books), “Fangirl” by Rainbow Rowell, “The Girl on the Train” (Paula Hawkins), “The Unnoticeables” by Robert Brockway, and one or two others I’m forgetting I’ll bet. I’m even reading “Futuristic Violence and Fancy Suits” by David Wong right now. That means by the end of the year, I would have read at least 19 books.

That’s insane. For me anyway. Last year I barely completely five books. And this year I’ve read almost two books a month. I know that’s not a big deal for some. Some avid readers complete a book every week. Others, a book every few days. But I’m still pretty jazzed about it. And I think my writing has improved significantly as a result.

I’m feeling grateful about a bunch of things. About friends and family. About every talent I possess, no matter how average or underdeveloped each of them is. 

I’m grateful for great music this year. I’m grateful for Corinne (boo for life), for Kanye and Frank Ocean and Chance. For Rihanna. For BEYONCE. For Coldplay and Radiohead. For the new Solange (what I’m listening to right now). For Kendrick’s Untitled album. For Drake’s Views. For every artiste that made this year incredible with their hard work and determination to bend the trends. 

I’ll probably write something more extensive in December. Or maybe not. But I’m oddly content in this exact moment. Considering where I was emotionally at the beginning of the year, this is a damn near miracle. 

[thewriterandi]

Writing Takes Time

Every time I sit down to write, I am quickly reminded that: - Writing takes time

- Passable writing takes more time

- Good writing takes too much time, and

- Perfect writing takes forever.

[thewriterandi]

These Chinks

Your fingers cut on these chinks

Your lips split on these cracks

I did not realize how damaged I was

Till I was trying not to fall apart for you

[thewriterandi]

Everything In Me

Everything in Me wants me to lie to You

This Game is familiar

This Game is comfortable

This Game is true

This Power feels out of balance

I need to reinforce these walls

You control too much

Your hold is too strong

Everything in Me wants me to lie to You

Everything in Me wants me to make You feel Small

Or make me feel Big

It’s all the same

Old habits die hard

This one’s innocence died young

And this tongue wants to spin

Seven yards of silk

Trap you in a web of untruths

Bind you with sincere dishonesties 

This Power feels out of balance

I need to pull away

You control too much

Your hold is too strong

Everything in Me wants me to lie to You

Everything in Me wants me to teach You a lesson

For sins you did not commit

Or did not yet commit

Or did not know you were committing

Or did not know were sins

The voices in my head

Inscribe raca on my skull

It’s a barrel of laughs

Each time I say your name

Do They know something I don’t?

They must know something I don’t

This Power feels out of balance

Just fucking leave me alone

You control too much

Your hold is too strong

Everything in Me wants me to lie to You

Still, I never do...

[thewriterandi]

I Found You

I found you in the umbra of a backseat

In the thick of silence that breathed unspoken truths

Where lamplight streamed amber through foggy windows

But kissed your flesh in shades of blue

I found you in the earnest of your gaze

Your gaze that warned me to go and begged me to stay

That told of biding affections and dawdling regrets

That blurred your wisdom into shades of grey

I found you in the quiver of your touch

In the sear of your heart’s gateway and the thrumming of your bones

Five minutes in and I’d surrendered my mind, my body, my life

Thirteen minutes in, and I’d surrendered my soul

And you told me to run

With your eyes, and your hands, and your lips

But you would not tell me to stop

With your breathing, or your fingers, or your hips

So I spoke to you in holy tongues

And you bathed in bridled worship

Only bridled worship

Tame reverence

Muted adoration

There was no sacrifice that night

Even then

Even so

What do we do now?

I found you in the umbra of a backseat

In the thick of silence that taunted our spoken lies

Like “We’re just friends” and “We can’t do this” and “This is over”

I found you in the umbra of a backseat

And found my answer in the back of your eyes

[thewriterandi]

Shadow

I had a dream

That You turned to dust

Slipped between my fingers

To the edge of my fingertips

Danced against the wind

Gone

I had a dream

That Your voice was an echo

Which I mistook for a song

A song for me to sing

Now caught in my throat

Gone

I had a dream

That You were a shadow

Untethered to anything real

And when morning came

The light dispelled You

Never to be Mine

Never Mine in the first place

Gone

[thewriterandi]

Old Friend, Close Friend, Best Friend (Part I)

Old Friend,

Droplets of time pool into the rivers that separate us

And now it’s been three years, five years, ten

Your flesh bears scars unfamiliar since last we met

Your eyes have seen things

Your voice drips with new pain since last we spoke

Your wrinkles tell stories

Familiar stranger

That smile of yours still wells up feelings

Feelings too full for my chest

You are unknown

And suddenly more known, suddenly always known

Too known.

You always were a snarky mutherfucker

I smile back, and these arms have missed your frame

They form a bridge around and over you

Over the rivers

The rivers of time

My speech meets yours and they fit so carelessly

My wit, your banter, they find each other

They play so fearlessly

A verbal dance neither of us can ever forget

The ultimate muscle memory

Ten years, five years, two weeks--it’s all the same

It’s all the same with you, Old Friend

And perhaps

That is why we let the rivers flow

They could rage, and we would not be afraid because we know

That this bridge will not wear, nor burn

And that even without a bridge, I would step out of this boat

I would step off this plank of pride

And I would walk on the water to you

[thewriterandi]

Define Love.

Sacrifice. Tolerance. Affection. 

In measures beyond those one would typically serve them.

[thewriterandi]

She said

She said she would always be there for me. But she can never be there for me in the way I need her to be.

[thewriterandi]

Of Monsters and Reapers - Chapter 27

I’ve been having problems with this chapter. It’s a complicated fight scene. Complicated, not in theory, but in execution. I worry that it’s convoluted and confusing. Battles using magic have never been easy to describe for me.

[thewriterandi]

The Problem with Cyclothymia

One of the biggest problems with cyclothymia is that it’s hard to tell if a situation is really bugging you, or if you’re merely having an episode. Do you have a right to be upset about that thing s/he said, or are you just processing it wrong right now? The uncertainty is frustrating. 

[thewriterandi]

Lightning in a Bottle

You are lightning in a bottle; my favourite idea wrapped in flesh, finished off with a bow in the likeness of your smile. 

[thewriterandi]

Tonight

You looked beautiful tonight.

[thewriterandi]

Let me cry for them

It's not about whether or not the character is real. It's about the idea of the character; the memory of the character. Emotion knows no distinction between fact and fiction. Let me love this character and hate that character. Let me cry for them.