My fingers dance on these keys and as the words flow from mind to fingertip to screen a story is birthed from the confines of my mind. In its infancy its resplendence is still non-existent; it’s an uncut gem and I’m the lapidary tasked with its cutting, grinding and polishing.
I can tell this story will be different from the others. As I read the words over, I notice an intrinsic manifestation of my identity burgeoning within them so it feels like I’m staring at an echo that’s being thrust back into my face.
I’m anchored in place yet I’m a floating consciousness, going beyond the frontiers of reality. My steps, rather than carrying me on one of the customary transcendental trips external to my person in search for substance for my art, are turned inwards. They’re leading me deeper into my subconscious and drowning me in a cacophony of thoughts and memories.
The first memory I find myself in was at a time when, to avoid killing my mind with thoughts, I was killing my liver with drink. That particular night, I had decided to seek shelter in the confines of my drunkenness. I started out with a bottle of Russian Standard and every cup I downed tried its best to wash away my worries and drag me towards inebriation.
The next morning I still remembered leaving the flat with my mates, the cab ride to the club and the initial wave of music as I got in-so loud that each bass resonated with every fibre in me.
There was no recollection of how my lips were now rouged with some random girl’s lipstick. It turned out that it wasn’t any random girl’s; it was Her’s.
I remember the shock and disbelief that it had happened and the acceptance that followed. Most of all I remember the irritation at myself for not remembering the kiss.
What did she taste like? How long did it last for? Did I enjoy it? Did I feel the Sparks I’d dreamt that I would?
I couldn’t answer those questions. Would I ever be able to?
As I tossed the question around in my head, my phone rang and I was jerked out of my reverie.
It was the text tone and I knew who the text was from; it was from Her.
It had been a few days since I bared my soul to Her and I’d noticed that her replies now came less frequently. I quickly grabbed my phone from under my duvet and unlocked it. I opened my messages and my heart sank.
“<From 3: Your new ebill is now ready to view. For the full bill go to…”
The message before that was the one I’d sent to Her a couple hours ago. Still no reply…
I slunk under my duvet and went to sleep. I needed to escape my thoughts for a few hours because I definitely wasn’t ready to bear the brunt of raising my expectations once again.
– From the cacophonic mind of Joshua Obichebendu