Writing is hard!
Sometimes, an idea comes to mind
like a strong itch in the back
the one that needs you to scratch it vigorously
or rub your back against a rough surface like a goat
but you ignore it because it's just that; an idea.

On a random day, you get inspired
and finally decide to write something
because it has been months since your last piece.
You decide that maybe you will write about the rain
about how you longed for it as a child.
Because then, you would take off your clothes
and run around singing nursery rhymes
unbothered by how you would be shivering later that night.

But you are an adult now, and dancing in the rain no longer excites you.
You now see rain as an enemy, an impediment to your adult plans.
You had wanted to go out with friends to an open concert
but now have to choose between sleeping and folding your clothes.
Besides, when it rains, your electricity is disconnected
and you have to endure hours of darkness
as you wait for that perennial fault to be fixed.
So, you see, you cannot write about the rain.

Or maybe you will write about flowers.
About how you loved plucking them on your way to school.
About how their scent filled the air in your father's compound when it rained.
About how you rubbed the red and yellow petals
on those love letters that you sent to your crush
the one who snorted everytime she laughed.
But now, you no longer love the smell of flowers.
because they remind you of death
and the unending pain and uncertainty that comes with it.
The last time you held a flower was when you were plucking its petals throwing them one by one into the grave
as you sent off your best friend who died in a car accident.
So, you see, you cannot write about flowers.

Or maybe you will write about love
But then again, what can you really share
besides the fantasy you always hold onto every night before you sleep.
The one of you playing with your daughter in the tall grass
and your wife taking pictures to frame for your grand children to see.
However, the last time you were in love, you almost died
because she stabbed you after going through your phone
and seeing those messages you sent to Natasha.
The one with the eyes like those of a calf
The ones that you looked into and did not know what to say.
But you found the words and those got you stabbed.
So you see, you cannot write about love.

Finally, you decide that you will write about God
About how his love is the purest you have known
and how it has kept you standing even when your feet became clay
You want to write about how this love formed scars of your wounds
and touched your failing heart when the machines in your hospital room beeped in monotony.
You want to write about how when your lungs almost ran dry
a new breeze was blown into them bringing you back from the edge of the abyss.
After a few lines of writing, you realise that you are unable to put your thoughts into words.
What you have written down feels disrespectful
It is a grain of sand compared to the mountain you had envisioned.
So you tear the papers and flush those thoughts down the toilet.
You then get up from your desk and pick a cold beer from your old fridge
And do what you have always done best; drink!

©Maathe