...dear diary, this extract is an attempt to reflect and therapeutically feel my emotions through this art.
I have had the pleasure of having a challenging life but somehow writing became the magic that I can wield and make healing myself passively possible. Though I am no different from any other soul, this ability to spew my traumatic episodes in structured pieces feels like an added advantage over those of us who can not afford to explore their pain lyrically.
For this reason, I am yet to understand why sometimes it is so difficult to be fluent in my narrative or how on earth my sensitive soul abandons the only way to paint the colour of my warrior spirit?
I open tabs greedily to satisfy the urge to create but nothing sprouts from its echoing vacuum before long, the passageways of my headspace are once again filled with these voices that bully my wild into silence.
When I try to force myself to create, I end up questioning whatever piece of work is born in such a mood. After poking enough holes, you should see me swimming in doubts and still having the boldness to mourn every piece I never bring myself to share.
What do I ail from I wonder? Is there a remedy for this strange affair with words?
I desire to have them boiling to the brim at any given moment. This way, I can recreate the little weird happen stances that make me who I am as a being. Writing is the only spiritual law that allows me to awkwardly talk myself into a better place by letting the cleansing prose that flows here wash over me.
The result is this... Me worshipping the best way I know and everything now aligns with my core. My poetry is reborn and bright ideas gather to feed my unproductive mind.
How do I then stop doing this for my own good?
...wambuku w.