I did not just wake up in the morning of the months ago to find out that I can no longer pen a meaningful piece, a piece that I myself loved, a piece I would want to share with the world!
I have written droves, on word document as I usually do; I have gone back to my pen and paper. Literally, in the past when I could not write, this is where I would go -to pen and paper- there is magic in the smell of paper and the scratch of pen on paper, as I sway away the ink, in italics, the way I like. You know, just the way you can write on that paper, tuck it away in your pocket and just go mind your business, like nothing has happened and finally when you remember, you can check out the piece of dirty paper that you had tucked away and edit your work, when you are eating your cheap lunch in some dusty kibanda somewhere in the CBD?
That has been taken away.
That has been lost.
I can no longer sway away my pen, such that the handwriting that I started with is not the same as the one appearing in the last paragraph. I get tired. My wrist gets tired in the middle of the writing and then I start scribbling words so close, that they touch each other, intentionally. I never like the writing in the last paragraph. It usually looks busy and disorganized; it is tiring to the eye.
Today, I don’t have to worry about the letters touching each other; I have to worry about getting the letters in the first place. I dread the fact that the gods of alphabets have declined to let me mingle their subjects to weave a piece. I stare at the blank screen and keyboard that I am unable to punch away. I stare at the paper, the pen I can’t piece between my fingers and slant away.
Every so often, those who write -I mean those who write- not Facebook updates. No. Those who write, experience what they call a writer’s block. I have had mine, I have had the moments I could not piece anything together. These last few months have not been those moments. Writing use to make me sane: when I would get mad, I use to write away, when I am happy, I would write away, when I was sad, I would scribble away.
I have lost my pen; I am not in the demeanour of a writer’s block. No. I have forgotten how to write. When I finally wake up from this slumber and find out that it was a dream, I would rejoice. But no, this is no dream. This is as real as me jostling the streets of Nairobi each morning, painting that perfect picture in my head, doing that mental write up, only to lose all the words as soon as I sit down to place my experience.
That I have forgotten to write is a sad realization. It is death unto itself. That I have forgotten how to write is a tragedy! As my maiden literature sits with my friend as she goes through it, edit it, adds and removes unnecessary information, I seek redemption on how I can master to whisk my pen again.
I need ink and feather right in front of me. I need books; I need to read like my life depends on it. It depends on it, whichever way you look at it. I need friends that read, friends that write. That company that makes you better than they came into your life.
Koderoh's Diary. 