It’s a new season. It’s a new time. These new writings are different from the previous ones. And in many ways inspired differently. The first set of writings came from a a young man who had it figured out, or at least, had hope that it was all figured out. From that enthusiasm came the inspiration.
When he wrote about Love, oh sweet little boy, it was because he felt it deeply, or at least, had longings for the same. And from that, he poured out ceaselessly. This time is different. This heart is different, far from what it was. This heart is no longer certain of what it feels nor what it is capable of. This heart hasn’t forgotten everything it knows and once felt, and cannot deny them, but it is uncertain if it should pay attention to or utterly dump them.
When he first penned words that answered questions and shed light on matters, when his words first ignited thoughts and perceptions that were erstwhile left in oblivion, it was because his heart was clear, and had much joy within. That joy was the enthusiasm from which wisdom poured out ceaselessly.
While the first ones were sincere, with a subtle intention to inspire others, there was a grip he had. He could decide what to write and what not. He was in charge. This time is different. Inspiring others are not even his first point of interest.
But this time is different. Made of the same substance, but at worlds apart. This heart now dangle between confusion and uncertainty. This heart is assured of nothing.
This heart is a struggle. A struggle between love and lust.
So what’s the deal this time? SURVIVAL.
This is about survival. The need to save his heart and mind from drowning in the sea of thoughts that he’s been swimming in. This is the last strand of wood he’s holding on to if he might survive this stormy sea.
This is therapy; an attempt to pour out, to give expression to the toxic, the stale, the unattended, and unaddressed. Perhaps to let some new air in. To open this room for new energies and new thoughts.
This is sincerity; not some creative make believe.
This is my space; to unwind and unburden and unclutter.
You might find your shoes as mine, my feet in yours
You might find my story and yours can align
You might find my views can shed light to yours
You might be inspired by my cries
And find directions for your pain
Or perhaps, have the answers to these new questions.
I’m still this little black boy, encased in the body of an aging young adult, swept off by this quarter life crises.
I’m still my real, sincere, and humorous curious self
I’m still theimisiOluwa.