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Credit- http://changeorder.typepad.com

   It was a usual, casual  meeting when she was called to sing.  Her demeanour was that of an absolute shocker. Half-way into the song, she paused and said ” I am sorry”.  I did  not know the song but she made me know she messed up. The story would have been different if she had continued. Well, she kind of reminded me of myself.

           Many years ago, writing was an art to me. I made use of a natural feel, intuition to express the inner man’s craving. It was a world that I hid myself in. I did not have to look over my shoulders to see who was watching. I made use of what just came straight from the heart. I did not have to think about what any editor, publisher or critic would say.  I was that boy who did run around elated because somehow, he felt he brought meaning to alphabets.  I built a structure that was my thing and my way.  It was purely kiddy  stuff but those are the ones I am  proud of.

      I still feel that is the real me.

     Time has changed. Everything I do now is a direct contradiction of what used to be. I now study  literary theories. I scout for themes to write on just to fit in. I lost my art . . . my heart.  Life now is about the head.  But it is just the case of demand and supply, the lifeline of economics which publishing rightly is. There have times that I have walked away.

   I look at myself and I see a scientist struggling to make something out of words.  I know I live for big moments but those kill me many times before they happen. Growth is logical exit to  learning but in the face of artistry, it is the loss of self that matters to me. I do not know if I am proud of what I do. What I know for sure is that I am glad I do this.

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Comments
  1. wsgeorge says:

    Yeah, life can be a bitch sometimes. I take it that I’ve also lost my innocence. All my writing is, in a way, lamenting that loss. That is the only way I can reclaim some of it.

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  2. MK Ngoyo says:

    The early period of innocence, of artistry, is to me like a wild garden. Overgrown with a profuse jumble of weeds and vegetation. Then we apply discipline, effort and thought. We decide what to plant, when to plant. We uproot the old profusion of creativity and replace it with an orderly selection plants. Planted in neat rows. But we secretly miss the natural beauty of the untamed garden.

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  3. This is true of many writers. However, I still try to remain natural. Themes for me are my choice to make. Being more conscious of your environment gives you an edge I think.

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  4. […] nearly strangled me. I woke  up and under that study lamp, I penned down a few words. When I wrote On Self-critiquing And Artistry, it was because I was  celebrating  the fact that you were no longer my muse.  It was both […]

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