As a writer,
You never run out of things to say;
It’s just that sometimes,
You’re too tired to say them,
Because you’re consumed by the mayhem
Of life, compulsories and inconsequentials;
I forgot the quintessentials
That are supposed to give me meaning
And now I’m leaning
Towards extended sadness
And loss of self-worth;
Is it worth
All the emotion I feel?
Can you distinguish between what’s really unimportant
And what’s really at stake?
Because you’re writing because you have things to say,
But you can’t say them,
And you’re inadequately expressing the mayhem,
Worse off than you were before,
And too tired to write any more.

The World Is Big

The world is big. Incomprehensibly so. It seems barely manageable when you look at it from your community, your immediate surroundings. But there are so many levels of impracticality in that, that there’s no point actually trying to go through them all.

I sit in my chair, curled up into a ball, trying to make myself small, because that’s how I feel. But that’s an understatement, isn’t it? Or is it the opposite, since ‘small’ rather overestimates my size? Minute. Miniscule. Infinitesimal. But those are hardly more appropriate.

If you’ve ever been high (literally), you may have seen the ground below you dotted with people like flies, walking about, all in the name of doing things they believe are important, or trying to achieve importance. How well is it working, really? How far are you going to get in trying to make a name for yourself when the world so, well, big? Hitler was ‘important.’ But despite what you might think, not everyone knows his name. Not everyone even knows Jesus’ name, so what are we even trying to prove?

When you look at things from farther away, I suppose they’re supposed to get smaller. The world works the opposite way, it appears. The farther away you step, the more there is to see. The more land your eyes can cover. The more the world gets bigger and bigger and bigger, till your own eyes can’t even make out anything distinctive. And still, the limit of your vision isn’t even half of half of a sixteenth of a sixtieth of what’s out there. God is wonderful, you know?

But how do we, mere mortals, boldly tell ourselves that we want to make it big? Compared to the size of the universe, how ‘big,’ really, is our ‘big’? How many people need to know our names before we are satisfied that we’ve made it? Especially since our numbers keep growing. Especially since there are billions of us, literally. Our planet is teeming with beings with our same capacity, beings that just might get it into their heads that they want to do what we want to do first. How crazy is that?

Sometimes, it seems a rather hopeless case, and I feel like giving up. Curl up into a ball and make myself small, because that’s how I feel. There are too many people and the world is too big to make yourself of any true significance.

And yet – and yet, there are people who acknowledge your existence. The world is big, but the whole world is not everyone’s world. Each person only belongs to a rather small portion of this vastness, and you’re part of someone else’s.

‘I fear oblivion,’ he said without a moment’s pause. ‘I fear it like the proverbial blind man who’s afraid of the dark.’

-Augustus Waters from John Green’s ‘The Fault In Our Stars’

But if there’s anything Hazel taught Augustus, and me through him, it’s that sometimes, our universe is way smaller than we imagined. Perhaps our eyes have limits so we may know where to focus, and who to focus on. Perhaps we are meant to achieve relevance to the people who deem us to be so. So, if I’m important to you, I’m glad to be achieving my purpose.

There are so many people I could be looking at, but your eyes are the only ones that can actually meet mine. Population over seven billion, but your hand is the one that I can comfortably touch and feel.

The world is incomprehensibly vast, but now I know that mine, at least, right now, isn’t.



It’s a story that has been told over and again:
A child holding in a mental scream
With a smile on her face,
Because the outside is too tired to display accurate reflection.
Thoughts branching, like an unruly tree,
Somehow, no matter how far away the branches get,
Their root remains the same.
Head is playing merry-go-round,
But it feels like a roller-coaster,
When I’d much rather be on a water slide…
Dear Mr X,
I have so much to tell you,
And maybe, one day,
I’ll have the courage
And the words.
But for now,
A hug will suffice.
Once I sort out
The chaos in my head
Is not listening to order
A consequence or a cause?
Mr X,
How could I tell you a thing
When I can’t even admit the truth to myself?

MOVIE SYNOPSIS: The Origins of Okomfo Anokye.


Okomfo Finished bThe high noon sun burns a distinct red this day…. Clad in his war paint with  priestly  scars of the highest order etched into his skin,  Okomfo Anokye, high priest of the Ashanti people stands beside his King Osei Tutu as they calmly watch the approach of the massive Denkyira Army.

The war has spanned 3 years. The great Ashanti people, despite their bravery  and inextinguishable desire to resist the enemy have been pushed back behind their city’s walls. Here they await the numerically superior Denkyira who are confident in their own victory and march with an unforgiving  desire to conquer their most resilient and stubborn foes so far. However, where most would surrender, the Ashanti defy. Where most would run, they stand and embrace death. The silence which fills the city is not as a result of fear, but from a unified focus on the task at hand and…

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Her: Oh my God, he’s cute. Especially when he smiles. And his hugs are magic. He’s cuddly, but, like, hugging a muscly, well-toned panda bear.

I wonder if he likes me as much as I like him. Oh my goodness. What if I’m not good enough? What if he gets bored of me? Maybe I should be more fun…giggle at his jokes more often. Perhaps I should be friskier. Grind more sexually when we dance.

Yeah. I should do that. I mean, I don’t want to lose him, do I? Nah, I enjoy his company too much – far too much. He makes me laugh at the most random of times. Even when he does not-so-smart things, it’s cute, because, well, he’s cute.

That’s not to say that he’s not smart, though. He’s so intelligent. He, like, gets some of the top grades. I wouldn’t want to be with anything less, anyway.

But I mean…he’s sweet. He’s adorable. So I don’t, like, mean I won’t love him anymore if he stopped getting good grades.

Oh my God, it’s a text from him! It just flashed on my phone: “Hey, babe.”

OMG, he called me babe! He thinks I’m his babe! Time to start changing my name to Mrs…

Him: Yeah, she’s alright. I mean, she’s cute. She’s also got a rockiin’ body, which is always a plus. Man, you should feel her out on the dance floor. It’s like you never want to be with any other girl.

Of course, I like a girl who can get down, sensual and sexual. It makes things much easier when you don’t even have to ask. But, you know, you can’t go for the kind of girl who’s too easy either. She can’t be going around getting down with all your boys. She has to want only you. And to some extent, she has to be an angel.

What I mean is, she has to be innocent, at least on the outside, like my girl. But, like, not too innocent that she doesn’t ever want to do anything. Like my girl, even when she does sexual stuff, it’s still kind of cute and innocent, not like dirty and slutty.

She seems to like me a lot, and I like that she likes me. She’s like a little squirrel, always happy, always laughing and always so, so cute. I don’t mind having her around, but a lot of the time, the boys tell me that she’s clingy. I mean too clingy.

Is she really? Well I guess I spend a lot of time around her. But I thought the boys would understand. At least, the guys who also have girlfriends. But I suppose it’s not fair, because some of the boys don’t. I suppose they feel left out. And, I mean, you also have to make some time for the guys…right?

But I’m still kind of surprised that they keep telling me to make her go away. Is our relationship annoying to them? I’d never thought about it that way, actually. Maybe we are annoying to them. I’d rather not be annoying. Otherwise, they might stop seeing me as one of them. Whoa. Then where will I be?

Wow. I suppose I can get her to leave me alone for a while. I mean, she’s fun to have around, but not at the expense of my place with the guys. But, like, I can’t break up with her either. In actuality, I have an advantage if I have a girlfriend. They respect that. It means that whenever there are opportunities, you always have that one assured person that you can do stuff with.

So, I made a decision. I picked up my phone, sent a text: “Hey, babe.” Then I followed it up with, “I know you’ll understand why I think we should cut down on the time we spend together in public.”

She’d understand, wouldn’t she?



Pick up your pen and write.
Write like no-one will ever read a word.
Write the emotional truth and fiction you’ve always been too scared to admit to yourself.
Write the kind of things you know you don’t have the courage to tell anyone else.
Write it, even if you never intend to tell anyone else.
Imagine you’re writing in invisible ink, and not a soul has the adequate means to decipher it.
Write things that are never meant to be read, as if they were never meant to be read.
Write in the most naked form you have ever thought your mind could be in.
Your words will be bound with the secrecy of your own willpower.
So don’t think about exposure; when we see new things without clothing, they are discoveries.
Write like you will never read your own words,
And don’t go back to check, or bother trying to correct.
In its most natural form, life itself is a draft.
Write the things you have never consciously affirmed.
Affirm them consciously on paper, and as soon as the tip of your pen leaves the page, forget.
Don’t tell yourself you’ll never be able to forget.
Talk to yourself in literature, but never read; you’ll hear anyway.
Time along the line of growth,
Hours, days, weeks, years away,
You’ll never be able to compare yourself to the person you never were.
The whole time you were writing blindly in the dark,
Black ink on black paper, unreadable,
Perhaps it never occurred to you that it was cathartic,
Releasing toxins that were never given the chance to affect you –
You have healed yourself of a sickness you never gave yourself the chance to have.
Perhaps when you’re older,
And have forgotten how wise you once were,
Unclothe the containers of the words whose existence you deliberately denied,
And nakedness, you will see, is the barest truth.