I can’t write

I can’t write.
The words are there underneath, bubbling, frantic. But somehow, they do not find a way to be said or written.
Maybe because these days, I feel less of a need to tell a story, and more of a desire to weep.
I can’t write.
Last night, I read about the El Nino phenomenon on Wikipedia, yesterday. And it felt like I was reading my biography. I am those lands ravaged by storms, lashed by droughts, broken.
I can’t write.
The zeitgeist is rich with writing materials. The increasing antiquation of our currency, the fuel hikes and imminent strikes, Tiwa and Omawumi, Cattle herders and Avengers. It’s an interesting time to be alive.

I can’t write
This morning, I almost asked out my best friend’s partner. I almost risked my friendship with her, because she made the inability to write not feel like a tsunami’s waves banging on the fencing of my soul. And I wanted that feeling for a while longer. I wanted to explore how she made it happen. Deeper and deeper into her. I almost, but I still betrayed her.

I can’t write.
I’m chasing dreams in the day, and I’m sleepless at night. Hell chases me, burns at the covering of my eyelids. Demons stalk my days; they pick at my trail. They are bidding their time. Waiting for the executioner to arrive. Sometimes I sense he’s moving closer, the same way a bat abandoning it’s nocturnal nature senses danger.

I can’t write.
I’m walking down the streets, and they feel empty of the fellowship that makes you feel like the world is not an extended cut of a dysfunctional horror flick. This is where I grew up. This old, rusty village. It feels like it is about to tether into the abyss of becoming a shanty town and the consequent atomism. It feels like a nasty break-up.

I can’t write.
Seven. Complete. I’m looking at a knife lovingly. Wondering how soft it would feel on my wrists. How the colour of my blood would contrast against the stainless metal of its blade. I look and smile. Time out.

I can’t write.
A new friend looks like a possibility. She feels honest. I want to be honest with her. I want to tell her I’m broken and fragile and defective. I try to be nice. It chafes. But the chafing may cause bunions in my soul, but they’d be cheerful bunions with her. While I find out a way to love elsewhere. Hell be damned.

I can’t write.
I have a curious relationship with faith. It’s like how a child sees a father who’s promised showing up for so many appointments important to the kid, but never does, because he’s busy helping out others and their children to the nth generation.

For #JackieBarra



9 thoughts on “I can’t write” by O-Money (@Omoniyi-Adeshola)

  1. Vanessa's writings (@Vanessa)

    I Can’t Write, but you did a great job. I’m thinking Jackie is an important person to you. Nice write-up.

    1. O-Money (@Omoniyi-Adeshola)

      @vanessa, thanks! Jackie is actually a stranger. We had a chance encounter on social media, and she inspired me to write this.

      P.S. I’m a fan of your work….

  2. Adanna Otuechere (@Ada123)

    Interesting!!!

    1. O-Money (@Omoniyi-Adeshola)

      @ada123, Gracias!!!

      1. Adanna Otuechere (@Ada123)

        De nada mi amigo.@omoniyi-adeshola

  3. Vanessa's writings (@Vanessa)

    Thank you! @Omoniyi-adeshola

  4. Ufuoma Otebele (@ufuomaotebele)

    I can’t write, you can!!

    1. O-Money (@Omoniyi-Adeshola)

      @ufuomaotebele, hiiiii. It’s been a while! I gaz to PM you sef. Thanks. Hope you good?!

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