Why I Write

Because the voices in my head need a canvas to draw on. The end!

It’s kind of like being possessed, have you been possessed? Too much, okay let me tell you how it starts.
It starts as an idea, a word that leaches itself onto my brain. Initially it’s harmless, like a feather in the breeze just flying with no real intent or direction. That is until, the word, the idea, finds its meaning in my world, then Lusaka, we have possession. Or have been possessed.

The feather now has intent and every exposed sole should look for cover. But silly me, I just put my feet up. The harmless leach now knows what brain juice tastes like, it went from a word, an idea, to a full blown infestation of a thousand thoughts all attempting to make sense of each other.

As the gracious host of what was intended as a small intimate gathering, which then turns into a raging house is going to burn down party and I’m in the corner hoping the owners of the house are on their way, cause now I can’t stop the madness.

So I write, I write because the blank canvas will never judge the voices as they paint the town red. Unannounced at your door we will come banging, not because we want help but no town painting session is complete without an invasion or two.
I write because it is the only cure for my insanity, how else does one explain the many voices without being put in a stretcher and dragged off to Chainama?

I write for all the voices in my head that have something to say, I write for us the confused and slightly deranged. Yes, he writes for us!!


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