Let's call this the end, shall we?
Of an era, not writing
“Write like you speak.”
For once, I’ll pretend you’re the audience in my head—the one that listens, applauds, nods along when I speak, and I’ll give you the witty, sharp, and perfectly timed answers that always play out when I imagine I’m on stage, answering questions no one’s asked me yet.
Like, “Why are you not a fan of labels?”
And then I’d reply: “I understand the need for labels. I see the ingenuity and a whimsical kind of tidiness in them. You put people in boxes, and suddenly, they become predictable. You know what to give a predictable person, you know what to expect from them. And as much as we like to brush it aside, civilization is built on predictability. One plus one will always equal two.”
“But I like to indulge myself. Taking on a label usually means strapping on the ideas, the expectations, and everything else associated with it. It’s like a contract. So, not being a fan of labels is really just me avoiding the responsibilities they bring. The expectations. It’s easier to stay undefined, fluid. But sometimes, I do wonder—does my rejecting labels mean I’m avoiding definition altogether? Or am I just afraid of being trapped by what I could become? I guess I’ll never know”
I’m going to pretend you’re that voice in my head, reading this, and I’m going to tell you everything. At least, I’ll try…
ON DREAMS
Most times, I feel like I’m drowning under the weight of my dreams. The vagueness and enormity of it all. You ask 15-year-old me what his dream is, and he’ll tell you it’s to become one of the richest people in the world. To finally be the first African to hold that revered number 1 spot. He’ll tell you he dreams of being famous, having the famous as friends, and the rich on his speed dial. He dreamt of things he’s never seen anyone like him have. His dreams were gauche, but they were clear.
Now if you ask me what I dream of, the only image my mind conjures is a word: “Greatness.” The only thing I dream of is greatness. Greatness in what and how? I have no idea.
People tell me I’m going places, and honestly, I believe it. I’ve always believed it. But that belief—it feels like both a promise and a weight. A burden I’ve strapped onto myself, like I owe the universe proof of my own potential. And yet, I still can’t see where this road leads. Am I just moving because I’ve convinced myself there’s greatness waiting at the end?
I like to believe I’m going places. I can see the writing on the wall, the frenzied prophet at my Aunt’s White Garment church I followed her to when I was 11 — coming up to me and telling me I have a shining destiny—well, right after the one who told me I have the death circling just above my head.
“I cannot tell you what it is.” I need a break.
People read Crime and Punishment, and their biggest takeaway is, “You have betrayed yourself for nothing.” But mine was the realization that, “What if I’m not special?” What if I’m just a real-life Rodion, who’s somehow under the illusion he’s meant for greatness? That he has the right to violate conventional morals, only to realize that he’s ordinary.
I think that’s partly why my idea of greatness is vague and almost chimeric. What if everything really is just a fantasy, the creation of a boy with a vivid imagination? A boy destined to be ordinary.
Yet, I can’t help but still wonder: what if it’s vague because I truly cannot comprehend its magnitude? The enormity of it all. What if I can only see a mere shadow of greatness because it truly overshadows all?
Ha, the sheer arrogance of it all.
ON FEAR
I have a fear of heights. But like the Litany Against Fear advises, I’ve faced my fears. Permitted them to pass over me and through me. I have been to the other side of my fear and seen what it hid. Standing at the tall buildings in my head and imagining myself falling. Fast. It always ends the same way: my body hitting the ground, lifeless, with my brain scattered like a grotesque painting coloring the rather dull ground. The story ends with me dead. My fear conquered and done with.
Yet, I don’t think it’s the death that scares me.
It’s the falling that does it. The plunge—the rush of air screaming past my ears, my stomach twisting, and my hands clawing at nothing but wind. The ground below rushing up too fast, the sensation that my body is weightless, but my mind is heavy with terror. It’s that split second where I realize there’s no saving myself. No control. Just the fall, pulling me faster and faster toward what I can’t stop.
Maybe that’s my real fear: the loss of control, the fear that no matter how hard I try to hold on, life will tear itself away from my grip. Even with all the strength I could muster, even with all the preparation, I might still be left flailing—grasping at air. It’s that moment, right before the end, when I’m falling, knowing I can’t change what’s coming. But maybe it’s not about stopping the fall at all. Maybe it’s about watching the end draws closer, and knowing that I never did enough.
A mere man lumbering his way to godhood.
Woah! Imagine finding out what your fears hid. I personally wouldn't even dare face these fears...