Write

Image from the internet

“When Ideas rot, it’s like a cancerous cell that slowly contaminates the whole thinking process and self-esteem.”

                                                                                                                                   Anonymous Voice 

Write, write, write, and write.  I pass my bitten fingernails through my hair. It has started locking itself. I close my eyes, take a breath of not-so-fresh air, I have not brushed in a while.

These voices are really starting to fill my head.

 "Salama Rasta"

"Mpa ijana"

"Huh? What do you major?"

"Two years?"

" I am … "

"You make films?"

The images are not letting me go either. 

Pac is smiling with his easy and naïve face. He has his blonde dyed hair with a line cutting through half his head.  

I see my reflection smiling, It has aged. It has gained more weight and more facial hair. It has a suit on and it fits.

 It is laughing so hard I can see my broken front tooth. Why is it laughing at me?

“You sure fool?” it utters loudly. 

I open my eyes and look at this blank page in my laptop.  It is Saturday, the 20^th October and it’s my 23^rd birthday.

23 like the magic jersey number in basketball. 2+3 is 5, my first novel has been rejected 5 times by the only publisher around here who has ties with PENGUIN. 

I am at my fourth short film. The plan was making the best short film, about depression.

 It is a very interesting and common subject, a shovel for gold diggers. I planned on becoming the wiz-kid  in the industry and taking over.  After all that is why I am called what I am called.

I can feel mom’s heavy breathing from where I am seated in the living room, her allergies again. 

"Ganza, your friends are graduating from the university" she said last night. I did not fight or argue with her this time.

"All your uncles are coming" she added.   I had foreseen this day but kept pushing it.

In 2 hours and 30 minutes, I will be facing the whole family about my issue of dropping out from medical school. 

Foolish me, I was re-editing the poem I wrote for her on mother’s day, to make an impression on a date.

The voices are getting louder now; it was somewhere here! I cannot find the pen…

“Fool are you sure?  Sure, you want to drop the obedience mask and walk freely. Are you ready to pay the price of freedom? Kan-Ye handle it.

The decisive moment has come!  You hate the truth, you hate facing people in their eyes, face it! You are a Libra, a weak one, a people-pleaser. In addition, you want to please yourself.”

A small laughter comes in mind, my accuser and I laugh at that pun.

He is right though, I want to please myself and let these ideas out so I can at least think something else.

Like “Phonia” my first novel, it has been rotting in my head ever since I met Sonia. 

"Sonia... "

I want to give the voices and the court that is about to organize the middle finger and take my course; but what if it remains stagnant like this?  I want to add a thumbs up at the same time, balance right?

I close my eyes again,

It is so quiet, so still.

I can only hear the harmony of my heartbeat and my brain muscles.

Write, write, write, and write.

                         

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