There are times I wish I could be normal. There are days I should cry my tear ducts dry.
Days like these when I am reminded of my difference, O that the ground would open. To conform goes against the makeup of my being. When I speak they listen and conclude that am ‘deep’. Meaning they can’t understand a thing I say. A guinea pig they try to pick my brain to discover ‘how my mind works!’
So I’d rather remain alone for it’s even lonelier in a crowd; three is a crowd. Just how much I would pay for a day of having fun like normal people do. Drink myself to a stupor shout myself hoarse by way of communication over the club din. I can’t hear myself think ‘if it’s too loud you’re too old’. The choice of music is awful and I have to plug in my earphones a bit deeper. In my mind peace! Peace, all mines
I guess am a genius in the lines of Mark Twain’s poem. I find no peers and as such I speak to myself; the image in my bathroom mirror. You may as well consider me as a mentally unstable. If you had your way I would be a patient at Mathare Mental Hospital. I can relate with Esther Arunga’s persecution and crucifixion by the media. Maybe they’ll leave me alone. If I were from a prominent family, my father would have hired Dr. Frank Njenga and it is only this once I count the ‘blessing of not having’.
How am I expected to respond to, ‘‘what nice rhymes u have! ’’; Or requests to write courtship poems for a hapless lad smitten by the charms of a beauty.” I write poems too! ’’. Yea, of course any fool in love is a poet! Instead I pretend to listen; this is my solemn duty in my capacity as an ambassador of the Nation of poets. Wouldn’t it be insensitive to tell my admirers to bugger off? Pretenders are worse than murderers and its worse when you can see right through them. You could smell them a town away with their juvenile mind games. I get angry when they manage to draw me in and convince themselves of victory. It’s in their cackling laughter that locks out sensibility.
No thank you! No competitions for me neither will auditions do. I will edit nada. Not even for TV. Oh, is that why I will never make it big? The thumb is the least offensive finger I can flash you. How can you judge me? Who are you to determine whose thoughts and emotions are more important than the next soul’s? What is the mark up price? You don’t understand why I can’t make this small compromise? Now am being unreasonable? You can’t see that you are insulting my intelligence? I should do more meaningful things is what my family would say, those courageous enough or those that still enjoy the good will of my time.
Why is it I despise your attempts at creativity? We all have different tastes could explain it but not satisfactorily. The marriage of art and commerce is faced by a perennial challenge that takes form in the question of philosophy. Giving life and infusing innovation with character i.e. a touch of god! Survival is for the fittest and my obstinacy is in the way of a brighter future. The more the merrier is a conundrum. The voice of the people is the voice of god and I am fighting a losing battle. I am activist.
If I called you an idiot, do you think that would be an insult? Beyond any reasonable doubt you have the makings of one. ‘’There is no sin, only stupidity’’. I am a snob and you are wasting my time. It is sinful to question genius. Then, I am a god. Where were you when I was creating, giving birth, and making history? I have places to go and you are in my way. A classic is a book or piece that people don’t read. It’s acquired as a keep-sake, a trophy for display .it features in elite conversations of learned men with excerpts quoted verbatim. The irony of this is that the creator was shunned and was condemned to the bowels of poverty. The geniuses name is only mentioned in opulence and the works are priceless. A great contribution to society according to decorated professors. The present owner, a connoisseur of art, shall ‘give back’ to society by donating it to a museum or exhibition. i am happy… i think.
I am legend