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Thursday, 12 January 2017


Image source: www.footage.framepool.com

The cock crowed; an ancient cue of a new dawn. I had been awake even before the rooster. I laid lifeless, just gazing at the ceiling. Pen in my hand, short of inspiration. Then an idea came so I got up from bed and went to the wardrobe. It was a very beautiful piece of furniture. All the details—the protrusions and intrusions, the colours and the way it complimented the other items in the room, the attention given to it by the carpenter—lend credence to its beauty. But just like everything made by man, it deteriorates and in the case of this beauty, the termites were beginning to infest.

I picked out something to wear. I pulled it on and stepped out of the building. I was going for a stroll in the neighbourhood. The thought of the long stretch was discouraging but I was taught to see beyond my nose. The air felt different from what I inhaled inside; it felt lighter, more natural. It was a bit windy but I felt no cold. The grasses were covered with dust, looking pale, begging for precipitation. 
Just then, I noticed some movement; it was a caterpillar. I had almost stepped on it; I almost ended the cycle of another just when it came close to reaching its heights. I became more cautious. I watched as it crawled across the untarred dusty road like an old locomotive. An ugly, tardy creature it was today but a beauty on wings it was destined to become.

I passed by a string of shops. This used to be the hub of the street. It was like our barbershop but time; it happens to everything. I moved further. To my right was a boutique, just opposite the deserted highway. It was where I used to purchase my clothes. But I heard he had moved. Bigger shop, higher price tag beyond my means, then I felt a pint of pain. I hadn't progressed much, I thought but then he began this race before me. I quickly comforted myself.
I turned back. I needed to head home but then I asked myself: what was the essence? Why wake up and then decide to stroll? It was simple: inspiration—I needed inspiration.

You see, it is funny how when you pick up your pen to write, you suddenly run short of words. You suddenly feel deserted by your creative spirit. But all around us, there is always a story. From that piece of furniture to the array of shops, there is always something you can write about. Life is an accumulation of small events. Those events are all stories. Ideas are never in short supply but words, same can't be said of words.

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