There’s too much to say, too much fire, and what can I do with these words if I can’t write them out. It is not just the writing. There is the burning.
No. I will not use that form of address. That is a relic of childhood. This blog will convey details of my journey and progress as a writer, and as a man. I will share relevant facts. I will be as objective and unflinchingly self-critical as possible. I will try not to be distracted by the bustle of this city. I will not allow emotion to colour my perceptions.
Ask anyone, there are many thoughts that come into our minds which we are not aware of, at the time we are doing the thinking. Feelings can be even worse.
It is 1:12am and I am burning. I have to live. I have to write. I want to transform myself into a thousand different characters and carry their life with me onto pages of books, screens of computers and various mobile devices.
It is amazing, just knowing there are thousands of people out there waiting to be swept away by the passion that is about to flood out from scarlet curtains.
I can give no more than all of myself. My heart is a burning flame and my pen is the vessel like a lit candle. It has to burn and glow. There’s too much to say, too much fire, and what can I do with these words if I can’t write them out. It is not just the writing. There is the burning.
I am here, burning, but I don’t feel scared of getting burnt. I feel like this gift, this place is a warm embrace just waiting to unfold me. I will share this gift and this place with you, for it does not usually belong to the person who uses it. He may think that it does, having gone to great lengths to get it, and this is often his downfall, because it is not in fact his own, he merely has the ability to use it.
So I will share with you. I will share with you a brief story of love, one that I am very much familiar with. One that is ever before me.
I have seen heaven and it is in her eyes. When she blinks it’s like flashes of lightening; colourless, but beautiful in every way. I imagine her opening her eyes to a brand new day, and it’s like watching angels gather at sunrise on a beach. I hear melodies of a choir singing, with voices that ring through eternity. This is the definition of beauty.
But her voice is everything I do not remember, nay rather, everything I do not yet know. Everything I should not be able to live without and yet, tragically, do.
Perhaps her requirements are too great, or her indulgence for human weakness too small, for my attempts to find and unite with her, have yet ended in disappointment. Thus, my journey continues…
Iweka Kingsley is a freelance writer and PR/media consultant. He works as a full-time writer with CP-Africa, a platform that celebrates progress across Africa. He is currently working on his second book, a novel titled ‘Reflections of Sunshine’. He blogs at www.iamscopeman.wordpress.com and tweets from @IwekaKingsley.
Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.