UNTITLED

I hate being an influencer or a writer. I sometimes get burdened when in between a conversation someone tells me I inspire them, that they love my writing, or they look up to me, as a role model. 

Why? I am expected to be this sensible person, who should always say something that is ‘worth hearing’ or ‘passes a message’. 

I am expected to confirm to this straight pattern, to have figured out this drama we call life and I am walking head on, dressed in a spotless robe. 

Somehow people draw this straight line and expect-no, demand in their subconsciousness that you pass through it, and when you don't. They judge you. 

Truth is, I am none of those things and I am all of those things. How? 

Yesterday, someone told me I am quite disorganized but also people have commended me for how organized I am at handling programs. Both of them are true.

Last week I realized that there is no way in the world Quramo (alongside a story platform I presented my work to)

will ever accept my work full of so many errors in the manuscript. However, on a second thought, I was once rated a-5 star writer. I am one of the renowned writers in my work place, and I earn comfortably through my writing. Last week I realized the money I was hoping to use in paying my house rent will not be coming forth when just a while back my account balance had the possibility of holding 500,000 naira. 

Last week I came back to my parents after trying to prove that I can live without them. It's funny how I have being writing since I was nine and I still have issues with grammar and punctuations. 

So where is this girl that has figured it out? That is walking on some straight line? She isn’t me. I have been at both sides of the coin - saneness and insanity.

When I post  some inspirational quotes on my status, I feel like a fraud because I don’t truly believe those words-If I did, some outcome won’t be that way with me.  When I present an image of all smiling pictures with my goals achieved, I feel somewhat of a fraud; one good day showed for the fifty days lost, one goal met for the other days I slacked. So I scream, ‘don’t! really!’  

I think of these things- of how I will be 23 in few days and I was asked to write a piece that is meant to inspire someone. When I haven’t even gotten a grasp of my life?  I move from end to end still within the same space of time; if I was to be drawn, it wouldn’t be a straight line. It will be jumbled up, scrambled line, not organized, treacherous. 

I like to call this end to end movement ‘fluidity’. I ask myself as I sit with my pen trying to compose a piece, ‘what’s the point?' ‘what is the message?’, ‘the victory story I tell my 22 years old self?’, ‘do I present this fluidity, this confusion?’, ‘where is this midpoint?’. 

It got me thinking of how funny life is. Rising and  falling. Knowing that you can be everything and knowing you can’t. Life is meaningful and  life is meaningless. Sometimes you’re amazing and on other days you’re trash, all you know is true and all you know is a lie-all at the same time. 

Few things are stable, even I sometimes feel like a mirage. It’s like I am this little boat on a high sea that is never at rest, not an end in sight. Like the art in this post. 

This art is just a cluster of colour, random, not aligned - synonymous to my life. It probably looks like a child's painting but it's actually one of the most famous artwork.

I have been looking at this art, asking, demanding for a message, a sense. There has to be something the artist wanted to point out from it. 

What I failed to  realize is, THERE IS NO MESSAGE, there is simply a WORK OF ART. It was selfish of me to place responsibility on an artist’s muddled mind to produce sense, when he is probably showing a mind that is baffled with a lot of issues, confusion, trying to find meaning among the universe, among the plethora of madness.

People confuse wisdom sometimes to mean sensibility, inspirational, educational. Truth is, it isn’t always that. Art is a whole lot of thing-a big spice of life but it isn’t necessarily educational. It sometimes serves a reminder that everything makes sense and nothing makes sense, what matters is the definition you give it. Whether you believe that or not, art have always being A WORK OF LOVE despite how fluid it is, how it goes from one end of sensibility to another. 

Sometimes we don’t know, and that’s alright. Sometimes nothing makes sense and that’s ok. Sometimes we aren’t at any end, and that’s ok. Sometimes our life is not defined- and it is perfectly fine. 

Life doesn’t owe us sensibility, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make YOU less of an art work, and ART WORK AT ITS FINEST, THE LOVE CHILD OF GOD. 

Maybe this post will blow out with shares and I will see fifteen comments (something to validate myself that I am a good writer) or maybe it won't.

Maybe I will have my book out at Quramo or not. I don’t know anymore, but I will keep going, realizing that sometimes I don’t owe sensibility to people much, or to myself even. 

As I sit on my sofa writing this piece, I am expected to inspire you, but I don’t think I did any of this. In fact, I don’t know if you have found any meaning through this confused mind of mine. 

What I hope to achieve is to give you permission to live a little, to validate your existence with or without achievements or other people's validation, but more importantly if you clock a new year or are yet to clock one, I hope I have given you the ability to forgive yourself.