I gotta stop crying. Stop moaning about this sordid route that my life has taken, root out the cause of the course of the miasma that is this life. This life. My life.
I gotta stop crying. Stop whining about the wheeney, screachy sound that is my lanky frame clanking and scratching its way through the blank blanket of a future that I did not imagine. This future. My future.
See I gotta stop looking at all the things and people and stuff that I got wrong and wring out the tears that I keep shedding in the privacy of a pillow of a dark night before I smile the suicidal smile of bleakness so everyone can say he is blinking brilliant or rich or happy or stupid but he is… blinking something. Blinking something.
I gotta stop groaning. Moaning and bemoaning my fate that I have the weight of my late life, the one where I mattered and my stuff mattered and I created stuff and words and thoughts that meant something – at the very least to me, I gotta stop moaning about the blankness that is writer’s block or painter’s angst or wooden fingers that cannot quite type those thoughts, these thoughts. My thoughts.
Instead, I gotta snap out of it and switch on the light and open the curtains and the windows and my nose, my African flared nose with its pointy part, that lets me speak words with foreign flair and so I must fling my caution into the wind outside my window and let lose my inhibitions to fly out this mind. This mind. My mind.
Yes, I gotta unveil my eyes and suddenly blind myself with the light of positivity sear my eyes with the conflageration of colour, the sheer cornucopia of sounds that threaten my eyeballs which now will see more than hear sounds and rush joy into my soul and free it from the chains of maturity and let it lose to discover its true will. My will. My will.
So I gotta stop crying. Stop instead to smell this cup of well brewed life, strained through all of the strain of survival heated up by love and hate and sadness and happiness and… well, life. Stop instead to celebrate these new wrinkles that I have discovered, be aware of these new aches that I have and smile because I see my parents in me holding the phone or paper away to squint… squint and wonder… why it mattered to begin with and why I let it interrupt this art. This art. My art.
My life.
