Somewhere in random conversations people throw words like ‘she has a way with words’. Subtly I’d like to think I have a way with words, they after all are a thing of beauty. It’d be nice if someone said I have a way with things of beauty.
The talking came with the package, some sort of product promotion benefits. Most of the times I talk to myself because;
- Mental trauma is an actual thing and if someone were to inflict such on me I’d probably break into their house and smear butter on their pillow.
- I can do it naked. The most purest of forms. Clothes messed with positive energy. You know it. Take that next step and admit it, trust me.
But sometimes I feel like I talk but don’t listen and other times I listen but fail to synthesise, hence I write. I write as a precautionary measure, to ensure I listen and understand. I write for the sake of the economy – simultaneously listening and understanding saves time and sometimes, every once in a while, I write because the winds and the waves get so rough that only my hands dare sail through.
Then there are days; days when God lets me beat Him at chess maybe because He’s seeking perspective and a change of viewpoint, helps at times or perhaps he figured my ego needed some divine love on the edges and all. On these strange days I write, I write myself to the borders of madness, set camp and fall asleep.
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Rebecca Opuba, a student from Nairobi Kenya who is 20 years of age