You sit on the chair, you tap your keyboard ceaselessly with eyes affixed on the monitor. You strain the muscles on your forehead in an attempt to let the words jump out. You blink your eyes at random it’s the trick you do when you think.
You look but you cannot see, the sight you behold is another form of nothingness. Your mind is bare like a blank cheque but you have no pen to write an amount you desire.
You should have a theme but
you don’t. You should have a plot but you can’t. Your characters should be well defined but they aren’t. The words should flow effortlessly like MI’s rhymes but they won’t.
So you log on to Facebook, you see 2 notifications on your timeline, your stomach churn because even you know your last story was roasted vomit. Your brain is clogged like a sewer full to the brim, refusing to accept the shit that you shit.
So you begin what you do best. You flirt from wall to wall, timeline to timeline seeking for the most curvaceous work written by that dude whose brain you despise because he toils with words the way you toil with girls.
Click! Click! And you gasp, the number of comments and likes dazzles you. You click to read it, but your mental laziness won’t let you read to the end. You see the share button yet you will not use it. You copy, you did not ask permission. You paste on your wall you did not acknowledge the source. You want to feel that feeling that comes with been submerged in a bath tub of accolades.
The likes and comments filter in, you smile and bask in the false aura of your purported intelligence. You feel a tingle in your belly, folks will look at you and marvel at your intelligence. That geek of a chick you’ve been chyking will now respond to the “hi baby” you’ve flooded her inbox with.
You must post another tomorrow, the cobwebs on your blog needs to be spewed. And there is the small matter of the literary prize you seek to win. You go hunting with the stealthiness of a leopard for your next victim. Scroll through people’s timelines, many not your friends. You can access their walls via mutual friends. You do not like nor comment on their posts, you don’t want to leave a trail behind. You are brilliant, you cover your tracks like a cat covers it’s shit.
You search until you get the perfect prey, this time you make use of the carcass on you skull called brain. You change the names and tweak a few lines. The warm breeze of accomplishment sweep across the lump of scale you call flesh on your face. You have finally written a literary piece after a thousand attempts. Your brains have just ceased being in exile.
You do all these yet you wonder why you have writer’s bloc. Oh brother writer’s bloc is a delusional illusion. What you have is a stumbling block and soon your brain will decay like rotten moss. You will be the sole survivor on earth if a zombie attack occurs, because you have no brain they can feed on. Your skull is just algae infested wall, covering a vacuum, not even a black hole.
PS: The muse of brilliant writers is been murdered by folks I don’t have a word to describe. That random SMS/BC your circulate on BBM, WhatsApp and their cohorts, acknowledge the person who sent it to you. There is no honor in claiming to be what you are not. If you must share this use the share icon, that’s what Zuckerberg made it for. Copy and paste is for MS Word.
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