Damn this mess. I know I should be writing. I know I should always be writing. But sometimes Facebook has a stranglehold on my imagination, grabbing her in all the wrong directions, inching her further away from me. And sometimes I seek out the trends on Twitter, because my addled mind does not want to think, breathe, need, feel…because I simply don’t want to deal with my muse today. Trust me, she can be intense, even for me. And so I avoid it like we women have been told to avoid sex, until we forget that we are sexual beings, until a sudden stark reminder in the craving between our legs reminds us that it makes us whole. So I sit here, ranting about my lack of enthusiasm while my mother is loudly on the phone….as YouTube yaks on about eco friendly charcoal I only half care about. And I know my muse of inspiration is sitting in a corner glaring at me in the most flame inducing stare down in the history of my life. But even as she does, my lazy ass is not moving from my Facebook, because Luvvie Ajayi is life. And then the ominous post warning me that I should be writing. I cower in fear and look aroind me, wondering, “Does everyone know my shame then?”
So I decide to sit down and write. But she is still mad at me, so the words come out on paper like a thin papery steak with no actual meat on it. She toys with me now, as she always does, holding me by my throat and letting go, so that my tears balance in my stubborn refusal. And this tug of war will be long and hard, til she decides if it is or is not worth my pain. I want to know why she is like this, fickle and vain, waking me up in the middle of my dreams, seiving through my sleep so as to attack me when I have no defence. And I always fall for her tricks, I always curse and praise her in the same breath. Because Jagombaka never tests, so I can never really rest. It is the stories and times she sees fit that will hold me…I am both miserable and excited when she becomes herself.