It’s been a long while since I wrote to you, and yes, I know I write this line very often. It’s so bad I have run out of who and what to blame for the disappearing acts.
Here I am, pulled out from under the unknown—maybe unnamed—rock I’ve been hiding under all these while, typing out my heart content. I know you won’t be bothered about cohesion of thoughts, flow, organisation and all other stuffs critics subject writers to, because if you do I’ve got this stand-by good news: I’m not a writer.
I’m naturally very rebellious when it comes to statements like “all Ijebu people/ladies are stingy/bad wives”, “Ibadan people are very local”, “fat ladies sing well”, “flashy fair guys are Casanovas”, bla bla and bla. I was particularly against the “what you do consecutively for twenty-one (21) days becomes a part of you” statement, because I “worked-out” for more than a month to maintain what was left of my six-minus-one packs, but I skipped the routine for a few days and I didn’t revisit it again (by the way, there is a faster way to achieve that: shed a ton of weight first. Mail me for the remaining tips). I’ve got a few packs left though. Methinks.
Like I wrote above about the statement, I was against it.
Reality set in and taught me some really cogent lessons. Real life is way different from the fancy things we cook in our minds. In fact, reality is more of the old black-and-white TV and far from the 75” LCD TV one wants it to be; it’s just left for one to put on one’s multi-colour lens of choice to view the moving pictures, or throw in some modifications, if one can. Maybe I’m just rambling; perhaps this is the part where I should write “Selah” in a large font. You choose.
My piece of reality was set before me recently, but I erred by buckling to its dictates, instead of viewing it with my very own lens. I got busy with important things, but I let go of other things that make me happy; things I enjoy doing. I felt working a little harder to get things done in spite of myself would make a huge difference, and I was right; I got used to living without the fun. It-stucks-after-twenty-one-days ideology set in.
A really huge difference isn’t it?
When it comes to reacting to the sight of backlog of mails on someone’s device (say some sixty-something unread mails), I think I’m a screamer. I was a screamer. I would look the person in the eye and give the “dude! Like seriously?” face. I think karma hasn’t had my time just yet (busy packaging crash hampers of retribution for better crooks I guess); else someone should have as well looked me straight in the eye—and my nostrils down to my toes—screaming to the brink of asphyxiation at my very own one hundred and forty-two unread mails.
Yeah, it was that bad. And I hate it.
I skim through the mails and disregard the low-ranking ones on the priority list. I could dish out blames at the inadequacy of the 24 hours I’m entitled to daily—approximately 29.17% of which is embezzled by commute time (I kid not), largely Lagos traffic; but I won’t. I shouldn’t. It’s all on me for being just one-directional. Letting go of the things I love to do temporarily sounded like a good plan, but it dawned on me that there will never be enough time, except I create one.
Things should change, and the first step to achieving that is writing this. Now I’ll be reminded of the things I’ve written on the need to put balance in the picture. I will put it as a colour in the lens with which I view and handle life; the aid to my very own box of black-and-white reality.
I wish someone in my shoes—or probably wearing a larger size—would read this and do the needful. Read the mails, reply the pings, read that book, see that movie, holler at the pal, talk with Ma and Da’, hangout with the ma’am… whatever makes/will make you happy. Arrive at a potpourri that has bits of what you want; maybe not everything but most of it.
I almost forgot; I never said it would be easy. I’m not sure it would be very tough either, but I’m about to find out. I hope I stick to my own advice.
Hasta la vista D.
I am @jossef69 on twitter.
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