The Writer’s Burden



Sometimes, we writers are the most lonely and sad people. Often times, our works are an outpour of our pain carefully coded in words to hide what really inspired them. After all, many of our writings were only our way of telling our side of the story when no one else would listen to us, before social media gave us a platform to share them with the virtual world.

For example, I wrote a song which I have performed severally, across many states of the country, in over 6 years, which has inspired many people, and which, recently, someone called his all-time favorite, yet the song was a result of an over two hours of crying, sobbing, weeping, and wailing, under an abandoned truck, faraway on the campus of the Federal College of Technology, Akure, faraway from where my tears would have been a nuisance to anybody’s auditory nerves.

Sometimes, some wonder why we just keep writing and sharing, even when nobody is reading, even when nobody visits our blog, but they don’t know that as much as we inspire them, we write to also prevent our heart from ripping apart, from the pain it abhors.

We hope that someday, we’d find that one person who will care enough to listen to our heart directly. The sad part is, we have learnt to so keep to ourselves that the person must have really won our heart and shown how much they care to hear us reach to that part of our hearts and give them.

Perhaps, we would stop writing when we find them. Or would have gotten so used to writing that we won’t be able to stop. Or, perhaps, our narratives will only change.

And if, however, we don’t find one that cares enough…it wouldn’t hurt too much. At least, we are used to being friends with the personalities we have created in our books. The lovers we have in our diaries.

And even if all these doesn’t solve them, we’ll be glad that Jesus is coming back soon, and if he tarries, we’ll leave this world soon.

But at least, even if we never have one to share our hearts-one whose love we can hold unto, we wouldn’t have carried the burdens of our lonely lives with us to eternity, we would have converted them to beautiful masterpieces of poems, and stories. And that, would still have been a well spent life.



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