18th July 2013: there’s nothing special attached to it, other than the fact that it’s the great Madiba’s birthday. I can’t even remember what I was up to a day like this last year. The days have flown by so fast; my youthful days are dwindling at an alarming rate. Soon, I will have children and a husband to take care of, I shall have a job to to slave away at every day, a house to look after, mouths to feed…adult life is a bit scary, sometimes I wish we never had to grow up. That I would seat in a corner all my life reading fiction and creating my own little make- belief world and be truly momentarily happy.
I wish life came with a manual, so that we would know what was expected of us and the steps to take. The freedom of thought is a prison in itself, having huge dreams that make you forever a slave in your quest to achieve them. The many potholes of self-doubt and hopelessness that define the road towards this quest; the torture of having to experience failure and not knowing what to do or whom to reach out to.
Life is small Rubik cube that no one really has the perfect combinations to, it’s all a matter of trial and error; pure guess work. You grab a path and if it doesn’t lead to the destination you desired, all you have to do is simply turn back. Sometimes, it’s too late to do so and the only way to find rest and contentment is to let go of that which you yearned for with all your heart. All this is tricky; you are neither a winner nor a loser. You are just an end product, a lab rat of some sort. Though the scientist in this case is anonymous and the experiment is life. Our dreams and aspirations are the procedure and the guidelines in this case, they define the end results. And should they vary from what we expected, the opportunity of starting all over again presents itself. It may be too late to go back to the drawing board, but knowing that you at least tried to change the circumstances is enough to liberate you from guilt and self blame.
As a child, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. I would hide in a corner somewhere, head buried in huge books that would easily outweigh me, marveling and feasting at the beauty of the written word. Having an English teacher for a guardian made things the more easily, my burning desire for literature was quenched by the great volume of books that I could find. I would read all the books I could find, and the little proud moments in class after my English teachers returned my compositions were to die for. I was a mature reader and writer way before my time. But along the way, the fire died. I knew that I would not be able to make a decent living out of writing, suppose no one liked my work? What would I amount to?? The hurdle of finding a publisher, I did not know anyone that could help. And so like a cowardly dog, I stuck my tail between my legs and let go of my passion. It is now that I should have stuck with it, starting all over again is a bigger struggle, the uncertainty is overwhelming. Constantly having to question my credibility; whether I am good enough or not. But this time, however disastrous the circumstances, I will not let go; the keyboard shall liberate me from the shackles of self doubt, the pen shall redeem me…How? I don’t exactly know. What I know is that things will somehow work out in the end. And if they don’t? Well, at least I tried…