I used to wonder, why I do not write anymore(apart from the occasional Facebook post).
I am on a ‘sabbatical’ I told myself.
I am ‘on a journey of discovery’. To discover what; I do not know..at least not yet, or have I. My pen always hemorrhages over. Spewing nothing but tragedy and lifelessness.
My pen dances harmoniously along to dirges and dirges.
Dirges buried deep in the darkness of black cotton soil.
He was buried 5 feet deeper than is customary to ensure the ghost of him toils if he was intent on haunting anyone.
But the judge ordered an exhumation and what a stench; that had been pilloried underneath. I write to exorcise demons, cure depression and just ran and pose stark naked in front of people.
I reveal too much of my nakedness when I write, and some will lie that my penis the best they have seen, that I am well endowed. You fake literal orgasms and I will walk away in bravado as you whisper that the emperor is and has been naked and small. Limp and unsatisfying.
But I will write.. I have to write. Because life goes on whether I mellow over tragedy or wallow in comedy. Life itself does not care.
I know this because as I was wallowing in the miasma of pity partying (i have been to a lot of parties yet I have never had of a tot of pity,is it drank or smoked like sheesha..is it a cock fest or is it bevvied with beauty and vanity) – a cock in all its glory mounted a hen right before me and gave a f**k without giving a f**k (how I felt, what I thought et al).
He was done. before I could write ‘hashtag pity party.
I did not give him a standing ovation, but the cock didn’t bother. After all, he was doing all things cock.
Well, when life gives you pity, throw a party.
When you encounter writer’s block, observe the mundane.
Well this is a travesty.