This one's a little bit of a nothing post because try as I might I cannot settle on a theme that suits my mood. What's my mood at the moment you wonder? It's a quiet smile and a wicked glint in my eyes; it's a dead pan face with vicious truths and strong convictions and; it's a soft anger that's borne of constant disrespect.
I don't want to dwell on the disrespect part of things, but over the weekend a writer friend of mine came to my house for the get together I threw for my 24th and shat on me in public. He literally pressed my nose and called me bastard in front of my brother and his good friend, Iapetus. Because I write and I'm so passionate about it, I try not to talk about it unless I'm asked explicitly because I can be a little bit overbearing with it. The struggle rises to the surface and overwhelms me. I can't stem the flow of stories I've held back because I can't find an appropriate deposit for them in my life. You'll be treated to the, "Err mar gerrrd nobody understands me" whine and that will be closely followed by the "following your dreams is so hard" wail. Sometimes I fail to keep from offloading my emotional baggage on complete strangers but I try very hard indeed. I try so hard that I'm proud of myself in spite of my failures. It's progress.
So this writer turns to my brother, Gbaddy and says..
Enter writer friend, Iapetus, Gbaddy and me, Afam, the competitive.
Writer Friend: Afam and I used to compete back in the day.
Gbaddy's really only feigning interest. He really couldn't care less about the competition or lack there of, but Gbaddy's nothing if not polite, so he puts on his most interested face and joins the conversation.
Gbaddy: You did?
Me: Yes we did. I defeated him.
And I did. I churn out content at a pace he cannot match, I have a greater following and he's been on hiatus for six months or so. Anyway you look at it, he's been buried. I don't like thinking about it like this because his race isn't mine.
Writer Friend: Well all he does is insult middle aged women about what they wear, while I write introspective and interesting poetry and articles laced with my unique brand of dark humour.
His words hurt. They were an icy dagger in my breast. At that point I just wanted him to leave. You don't come into my house and chat shit like that. It's just rude. As he left he tried to apologise, or smooth the troubled waters but I wasn't having any of it. I delivered the most cruel line when he broached the subject again. I said, "By June I would have B for Blown and you'll be exactly where you are now, nowhere."
And that's all I guess. I can't say that I will have blown by June but I hope so. The thing that's awesome is even if I don't I'll be okay. Dream chasing comes with a satisfaction that's unmatched by anything. I don't even know that this is my dream. The bit I like best about all of this, is that it's something that's mine and mine alone. Nobody gave it to me. Nobody can take it from me. Papa Afam didn't make any magical internship granting calls. Anyway you look at it, it's all me. There are mistakes, and there are bad calls but I can't help but feel a little bit proud of it.
And that's all for tonight I guess.