BY OLA VINCENT
What do you want to know about me?
You know what? You don’t really want to know about me. Probably because I don’t want you to. I’m better off being unknown, obscure, because if I tell you about me then I’d lose my vigour. Or maybe not. The simple truth is that I too want to know about me [laughing out loud]. Seriously I want to know myself. How does that sound? Weird? Okay, maybe you could say I’m weird, but weird is an overused word.
This I can tell you: the universe hates me [laughing out loud]. True, it plays with me, my emotions, depresses me with existential puzzles and then squeezes a drop of hope unto my frigid tongue. And a little hope is all I need to feel proud again, before the inevitable fall. It’s sad that the universe does this to me. We call it mood swings, but it has larger bearings. The universe fucks us all (excuse my language). And some of us are regular customers.
You see, right now as I’m typing this journal or whatever, I am a bit hopeful. I won’t go into details of why, let’s just say I just snapped out of a sad/depressive feat. Yea, one of my writing theories is giving me hope now (but most likely to change soon and cause lostness). I have tens of these writing theories. And they play with my mind, more like fuck with my mind (excuse again). It’s like trying to close a rabbit hole with a lid when there are many other holes around; pointless. Isn’t life? We wake today and push the boulder up the hill, and at night we rest, only to wake up and see the boulder at the foot of the hill, and we push it up again, and so on and so on.
Am I a writer?
That’s a scary question. I hate that question. Who’s a writer? I consider myself many things; a thinker, maybe writer, a know it all. Yea, in my head I know it all. But not objectively, subjectively. I think universally, any small thing I blow it up in my mind. Every emotion is heightened, especially empathy. You can say overactive mind. I like the word ‘universe’ (even though it fucks me, excuse again). I believe that one day I would turn my universal theories into valuable technology (you can’t blame me for dreaming). So, most times I consider myself a thinker. In fact, for the past three weeks thereabout, I’ve hated the word ‘writer’. I’ve even laughed at it (confession time). I’ve taken on the business mentality (writers just think stories, and not money). So some weeks ago I changed mentality big time (as I always do, nothing new), now is time to make money. I won’t be that storyteller or whatever that’ll face the laptop all day suffering and crying for inspiration. I told myself, “Use your mind’s power for business-like ideas.” Ideas not even related to the craft; wild ideas.
So, that’s my mind for you, always changing, always fucked. Some minutes ago, I romanticised death (am I going too deep? Fuck it, this is a journal for crying out loud). Business vs traditional creativity… I shall not be crippled by my wannabe storyteller mind. For heaven’s sake I don’t even read many books! So what’s the writer or storyteller hullabaloo all about?! Quit it already. Yes, your mind is abnormally active, but maybe all the fuss is for something else.
Okay, this has helped a lot, now I got it out, most of it [sigh].
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