Extraordinary Machine

I haven’t been on here in a little while. I haven’t written anything worthwhile in an even longer amount of time. No poetry. No flighty prose. No tumbling of feelings into something that resembles an introduction to creative writing type assignment. I haven’t really felt like it.

And then tonight something stirred inside of me again. I felt like writing. I didn’t feel like writing anything in particular but I felt like trying. I felt like silence and solitide awaited me and I wasnt alarmed; not in the least bit. I just turned Meshell off…I love her but I need to hear myself think.

I’ve been reading fiction. I don’t mean that in the plural sense of the word. One book…Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “Half of a Yellow Sun.” I have the last tiny chapter left. It was simply splendid. I haven’t read something that wasn’t assigned to me in probably over 2 years. I’ve struggled when I’ve made myself read for “leisure.” But, this relationship was different. Her writing style was simple to get lost in. Her imagery was lucid and believable and the story was captivating.

It’s a shame when you learn about your history through an author’s fiction. It’s a cruel joke. It’s painful. We didn’t learn about Nigerian history when I was in primary school. We learned about Europe and America and all that jazz. I feel bamboozled. I feel ashamed. I feel angry. I feel sad.

I want to shake those folks in that sleeping giant. I want to look them in the eyes and ask them why we continue when we now know better.

I’ve suddenly lost all desire to continue writing…

I read this in one sitting yesterday.  I forgot how fast I can read.  It was fast and interesting, simple yet addictive.  I think I’m falling back in love with fiction.