Grown Up (First Installment)

There is something utterly drab about growing up. It brings with it a forbidding reality that all but destroys the surrealism of childhood and teenage air-headedness. It replaces dreams with conformism, a constant effort to fit into societal expectation. Herein lays the cot-death of many a dream, talents and possibilities. I fear that I may have already begun the macabre dance towards the sepulchre of my possibilities. I have never being a lover of reality; it represents the darkest place for me. As a young man I could exist in my thought for hours unbroken, uninhibited by reality. I created my own reality, my own terra firma, my own being. Thinking about this has driven me to one incontestable conclusion: these days are the dog-days; the hours of glory may have already passed by.

There is monotony to daily events that bores.  There is an acute detachment to the essential workings of my persuasion. A disquiet that perturbs.  To me, beauty and living attain life-like contours the moment I read Dickens, Hardy, Joyce or Wole and the Holy Writ.  I think it was my Grandpa, Baba Ibadan, that herded me towards the lodestone of the earthly pursuit of Thermis.  He would always berate me for being too inquisitive saying "ma lawyer mi".  The encounters sowed the seed of an inclination and eventuality in my soul. Then there were the demons that pestered and chirped mockingly that I could never make it in the art. The spirit of Doubt that left nothing but a Changeling in my place for my parents to nuture.

a love letter to creative urge

I have left off this act for a long time. I feel like a child just learning to speak. Infancy after adulthood is a rude shock. An unnatural situation. I dicovered the frustration involved in googoogaggling and the exhiliration of a first step as I strove to regain adulthood. I do not know how I have lived without her loving embrace for so long-is it the abiding block that made it easier to bear? or was I just enchanted by the fever of daily human pursuits that I deserted the love of my life?

The stacatto utterances of the key-pad is like music to my ears. It calls her from the hidden crevices where she lays basking in the warmth of a rosy world, somewhere deep within the recess of my heart and mind, which hung over her still body like a benign moon. Even though I still trade with words everyday, I cannot find the words to woo back my lover. But, like the spartans, I wont despair or relent even to the death of the monotony of my steady pay-check and a draggy work schedule that snuffs the life out of all the muses.

The love of my life, my books, my seed, words like brick and mortar. I long after those days when i wrote copiously and was sated by the idea of creating a world to which I can invite my readers from far and wide.