There’s something wrong with my writing; I can’t feel it. Before, it felt like the universe was speaking, and my hands would write whatever she said. I would interpret whatever it was through my eyes and experiences. It felt like she was talking to her people through me. Every time she spoke, I was reminded that there was more to this life than whatever misery I was going through. If the universe could choose me to be the one stringing beautiful words together and tell people what they need to hear, I was going to be okay, whatever I was going through.
So, with every piece I put out, I was reminded of purpose. But this idea of purpose was built from assumed pain, the dismissal of whatever tragedy I was trying to deal with. Whenever I wrote, the world didn’t matter, I was bleeding through words, and I hoped that someone out there would find solace in whatever I put down.
A few months or so ago, I realized there was something wrong with my writing. Yes, the universe spoke, and I wrote, the problem is, my vision was limited. All that pain, tucked in, forgotten. I sit down, and I don’t see things through my eyes. Now, it’s directly what the universe speaks to whatever my mind hears, and then my hands write.
My writing is my most trusted companion. The one thing that I own, one that has been there since before I was born because the universe deemed it so. It was there when I got horrible marks in compositions. It was there when I was failing in the one thing that was mine. I didn’t know I could write; back then, I told stories when the universe spoke. But because the fiction of writing has no place in day to day conversations, I became a liar.
I was the girl at school who would blow things out of proportion because that was what the universe said about the situation, that was how I saw it, that is what I understood, and since I couldn’t write, I spoke, I was a liar, I exaggerated.
When I started writing, I was describing lessons from situations. I learnt a lot from the things I was going through, and it felt right to share it with the world. I wanted to share the joy, but most importantly, I wanted to find a way to release these things in my mind. I started my first WordPress blog, and I wrote my little heart away.
I loved it, I was always eager to share a lesson, but then, I knew I had to wait for the universe to speak. I believed that whatever I could do when I sat down to write was something beyond me. So, I waited, but the writing was scarce.
I was a seasonal writer; whenever the universe spoke, I wrote. Sometimes it came often, might be because I was in campus. I wrote about the boys I had crushes on, that one who we had been exchanging glances for more than two weeks without speaking. We would see each other in TV rooms, smile, and then keep staring.
That man was a beautiful son of the lake; I bless the ancestors in Nam Lolwe for him. Then there was this one who joined our class in the second semester of the first year. Confident lad, beautiful body, kind, and sweet, that one who felt calm but ended up being the most chaos I have ever been through.
I tried to love this one, so when I was crying my heart out after I realized the end was closer than I thought, I had my writing. I wrote my pain away, and now I didn’t have to deal with it. Then there was the man with the name of a place, the boyfriend who was physically abusive to his ex in front of me, and the one who cooked good food. I wrote about these men back then, and I wrote about them in Limitless Existence because my writing was my way to run from the pain.
Now, the lessons I wrote were not informed by the pain; the lessons informed the pain. So, every time something went wrong, I sat down and wrote, then I would be okay, at least pretend to be. But then, one day, I don’t remember how, but I learnt of this competition by Kartasi Industries for writers. I wrote about the Kenya of My Dreams. With all the things that are wrong with this country, it wasn’t difficult to dream; the problem was where to start.
I wondered if we could have schools that weren’t so congested some students get lost in the timeline of the syllabus, the mercy of the teacher, and the fastness of the quickest learners. This, for me, was the most amazing thing I had ever done with my writing. It wasn’t about pain; it was strength; it was hope, it was a manifestation. I dreamt of being a teacher in a public school where kids weren’t so disregarded and mistreated because they were poor. I dreamt a lot in that piece.
My lecturer was so impressed that he kept asking if I was the one who wrote it; I was so flattered and honoured my heart leapt, I knew I could write, but I didn’t think of it much, it was just something I could do. When Kartasi Industries called to tell me that I had won the first position, I was so elated; I screamt in the middle of the school mace, I was happy.
My writing and I have had a complicated relationship, but recently, we have been fighting. The words I write, including these, are, first and foremost, meant for me. They are reminders, lessons, and affirmations that I have needed at some point, and I find it best to write them down, so I don’t forget, so I can get back to it.
Recently, while the world that finds my words relatable and applicable in their situation is learning and appreciating the things I write, I don’t feel the writing. For a few months, the universe has overlooked me and continues to speak to others through me. Maybe I am too much of a believer. Although I am not feeling it, I write because the message has to come to the world. Someone somewhere needs to hear it. The work my writing does has to continue.
My writing used to heal me, now, not so much. I have felt separated from my work, and there is nothing worse than falling out with the one thing you thought you would have forever.
I realized that these things I had hidden within for so long needed to be seen, felt, and acknowledged. They had to inform my writing because there was no way to see someone else’s message if I couldn’t see what was in front of me. Whatever it is that the universe needed to say was meant to be seen through my experiences. That is why when I wrote, other people loved it; they were reading it from their own eyes.
It’s incredible what realization can do.
I am really big on taking leaps. Over time, I have realized that I don’t dream as big as I should. I don’t see big things until I am in them. I have been looking at life from the human point of view. My writing was whatever the writing gods said, and I forgot to see it through my life. So, when I looked at my life, I did not see it through the universe’s words. I only saw my pain, experiences, and whatever other forms of negativity life sent.
Life is a series of progressions, you take one step, and then the next, you cannot jump them. I believed in the idea of moving according to what the word said, that it took me so long to take a leap, even though my heart knew it was time to go to the next thing, which was always better.
My writing and I have been fighting, but I decided to reconcile with this amazing gift that the world deemed fit to give so generously. So, I dedicated myself to starting a journey to explore how far this can go and how much it can do.
I remembered what courage said about me, who I can be, but most importantly, what this writing thing can do for anyone looking for reassurance and encouragement. For the next 21 days, I will reconnect with my essence through my writing and other ways.
Join me, will you? It’ll be an honour to have you walk this journey with me.