Skip to main content

Telling stories.



We write stories that we know. Stories about ourselves, suspended in beautifully woven-lies and coated in humour, as if to dilute the vinegar. Stories that we hope would unburden our minds and heal our scars. But that is the beauty of literature, taking the mundane, the ugly and giving it a new life, capable of bringing joy. That is how we write. Self-therapy through our re-imaginations of reality. Different renditions of the same cry, re-telling of age old atrocities, and we continue to pay respects and tribute, because we all know it take bravery to confront demons that plague a poet and manifest in words. 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to: Make Rice

As per rice, before the jollof Wisdom is your grandmother telling you to soak it for an hour, "experience" is your mother telling you to 3 table spoons of oil per cup, innovation is you using butter to fry the soaked rice first.  You're welcome!
Post a Comment
Read more

Space off.

  We all need space. Just enough to let us grow, but not too much that you feel forgotten and left out. S easy to succumb to the charm. pain holds you back, and every night you're on your knees same prayer, "Make me bigger, my voice heard, a better day tomorrow". Tough night, tomorrow is the same, same fake smiles...but you're honestly trying but the scariest thing is remembering, fragments and pieces of a painful past you were too young to remember or know better. fuck this, another day ill deal with this shit, but when. All I have to make is a single phone call, get it off my chest, tell them that i remember now everything that they did, and you know better, but you're not doing it just for that. its because you need to grow . because maybe, just maybe the pain will stop and you can trust again, maybe even feel beautiful and carefree like you once did...damn! thats a long shot , but its worth trying right? but i never do, so every day i dont, a small piece of ...
Post a Comment
Read more

The minds who fell out of time

To you what is life is to me where death awaits.  Slow is to catch where the fire smoked.  But to burn brighter than the forecast .  A Sun sets slowly and lowly a fiery ball of doom.  Steadily stealthy the night comes. Death awaits.  But we are a people without time.
Post a Comment
Read more