I have come to a realization: that I fear writing now, while I used to enjoy it. I do not write as much nowadays, not even journaling (I habit I began diligently at sixteen and seemed to stop at twenty five; shy of a decade – perhaps I will return.) Now it feels like my work-notes, to mean the notes I take at work, are my journal. I like to think, far or near as they might be from what personally afflicts me, that they offer bearings on my being-in-the-world. The realization that I then speak of, torturous indeed, and perhaps because of it, is paradoxically empowering. See, I have now put words on page. They have missed me, as I them. To speak of the fear, I have to say it is one inspired by awe. The trembling when the sky above you appears to you fully as the sky, or the clouds as clouds, you as you – the fear that you, are you. That is powerful. And so, I was afraid. I think. In 2009, at a primary boarding school near Kenol, Kenya where I transferred, I enjoyed writing shairis. The cadence of them, the creativity, the game, twisting of words. You began with a set of rules in mind.
“Milele kuishi, muhali sana
Aliye aushi, bado sijamwona
Maisha ni moshi, ujue bayana”
Ken Walibora
The fear is perhaps more akin to Mary Ruffle’s contemplation on dread – fear that requires self-consciousness/’fear is to recognize ourselves’/fear versus desire. I wrote down after reading these pages: “I think I have had to reckon with the true fear that I could butcher writing, that yes, my writing may not be good, but that it is honest and mine, and therefore, contradictingly, good.”
Actually, to say at the beginning that I have come to this realization seems a lie. I think I have known it, and only just accepted it, for there is a difference between the two – one can look for an example in the (geo)politics of today. Because it is powerful to know that you exist wholly on your own account – and here it is not to tout individuality as opposed to communal living, but rather to emphasize the inherent BEING in being – and as such afraid, for accountability accompanies power. So here is to wielding a heavy brushstroke, unsure of what vignettes will emerge, but to no matter; the brushing resumes.
Your life is your life
Charles Bukowski