Just Whining

The last time I traversed the blogosphere was when my bitch was pregnant. No, I’m not talking about you, I am talking about an actual female dog. She gave birth to about two or four bouncing baby bitches.

It’s been quite a while since I last wrote anything. That’s because I don’t have enough faith in the type of writing that I can do. I don’t really think I can write something that’s um...relevant. I don’t think I can be taken seriously.

Even if I told you that the other day, I was smoking pot and I got arrested and I had to stay in the coolers the whole weekend. I was released because I had an exam but I couldn’t sit the exam because I had spent some of my tuition so I went and forged a bank slip. I cheated on the exam and got caught and the lecturers found out about the forged bank slip and I got suspended. I am now in a bar thinking about how I’m going to write all about it in my blog like y’all give a hoot.  

I don’t know what’s going on outside because I’m so busy trying to open all these doors in my head. The reality is clear when it’s cruel and clouded when it’s lovely. How do I find my way if I can’t even walk? How do I get help if I don’t even know the problem? How can I trust if I never learnt how to care?

I honestly want to know what the dickens is going on in my life. I need justification for why things are the way they are. I am looking for something, anything to believe in. I am looking for someone to listen. I am thinking of a place far away.

There has to be a place beyond the pain, the drama, the tears and the loneliness. Somewhere beyond the horizon, there must be a place where the light of the stars penetrates the scars on our skins and heals the pain on our hearts.

I feel vulnerable. I feel really empty. My life is like a bus stop. I keep watching the people come and go. Some of them will come back when they need to get to the next stage. Others just vanish and walk past me on the street like I was an unwanted cloud of dust.  

These clothes that have become my skin, these cigarettes that have become my indispensable accessories, this alcohol that has become my sorrow – these are the things that make it easier to stay in my skin. They are what gets me through the night. I never intended to make mistakes or to drag people in my mess. I am simply trying to get by.

I never wanted anything from anyone. I thought all I needed was solitude, a pen, a paper and narcotics. But this room suffocates me. I want to go out and shout and live my life and make new friends and new mistakes and laugh about it all.

Just thinking about it puts a smile on my face. Then truth,
like it always does, comes down with fierce brutality and the smile fades. There’s nowhere to go. There’s no one to call. I decide to drink alone. The beer tastes stale and I have to talk myself into finishing the last half. I end up crying. I drink a little more, thinking that if I just have one more sip, the void in my chest will feel a little less augmented.

Emptiness and silence…they are like sharks sucking my guts out.

Then I wait for the nightmares as I try to keep my eyes from drooping. I don’t want to sleep because the thought of facing another day terrifies me. Another day of being taken for granted, of being minimized, of getting shrugged off, of being lied to, of trying to do the right thing, of searching for a new friend. It is depressing. And I’m exhausted.

No, I won’t go anywhere. I will stay here. I won’t try to impress, I won’t care about opinions. I will accept my fate. I don’t fit in. In another place, another time, I’ll find my niche. For now I traipse with a little bounce in my step because I’m simply putting that diversity in society. 


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