I Put Shoes On

All I saw were spinning faces late in the night when I couldn’t see clear. I wear glasses so that I can see her better. I put on shoes so that I can take a walk with her. She likes taking walks. She takes me to the most beautiful bizarre estranged places. At times she takes me through dark ages and different dimensions. Once in a while she allows me to have a happy ever after ending and such yadayada types. I don’t like happily ever after kind of things. She can be cruel at times. She can desert me for days without giving me any clue or hint that she’d be gone for days. It sucks, and I’d have to grit my teeth for a while before she marvelously pops by to notion me that she’s back.

“You have enough battery charge?” She’d ask.

I’d have to check whatever device I’d be having close to me at that point and see if I had enough fire power to entertain her. She likes coming at weird hours, she doesn’t care about the inconveniences she’d have caused nor the inconsistencies that always tagged along from her days absence.

“Wait, don’t just sit down and stare at your phone for too long.” She’d whisper her silky voice through my ears.

“Two doubles, neat.” She’d tell the bartender.

“Here’s your drink now, on the count to three lets pour the contents down our throat and let us dance.” She’d talk, her voice slightly audible.

My eyes would watch her every move, the way she swayed her hips to the rhythm of the music playing across it was magical. I know I don’t need anyone to tell me that I’m done. I know what she’ll do next. She’d motion me by her index finger to join her in the frenzied dance. Like a zombie, I’d go dance with her. My fingers would feel the smooth sensations of her skin. She’d hold me close and we would look deep into each other’s eyes. Our heads would touch and she’d let me in.

This was how I felt about her. An eccentric rush mixed with different hues of colour that shown through my eyes whenever I thought of her.

16 years ago.

Before, I had an aggressive relationship with her. I never quiet liked her when I was young. She’d bully me around with her huge vocabularies, and how she’d speak the Queen’s language through her nose with pure eloquence. I was first introduced to her when I was in class four.

“Aye mate, your handwriting is poor and pathetic. I cant fathom a single thing. Your thoughts are everywhere.” That was how she began her conversation. No niceties nor formalities. She didn’t stretch her frail looking hand to greet me. Real sadist she was.

“Your tenses boooooy. Which grammar school did you go to?” She’d taunt me further everyday. I hated her, I disliked the thought of being alone with her for an entire forty five minutes. She’d look at me with such malicious evil eyes. Beads of sweat would form on my forehead as i fumbled around with the pen to write.

“God! A fountain ink pen?” I’d roll my eyes backward and let a sigh.

I was the messy type. Words wouldn’t fit in the damn line space. I dreaded English classes. I dreaded any language classes. Especially when it came to creativity. She’d laugh at me when my sorry ass was being flogged by the English teacher.

So one day I decided enough was enough. I wasn’t going to have anymore of the public class flogging after every two weeks of incorrect tenses and bad handwriting. I couldn’t help it that my handwriting was as bad as it was. We fell out. I turned my back against her. Never struggled about it. Instead my thoughts were focused on other forms of arts.

A Few Months Ago.
“Hey, it’s me again. The girl from grade school.” A sweet voice chimed across the room.

“You look more mature now and in shape. We can pick up from where we left.” She said.

“And why would I need that?” I asked loudly oblivious that there was no woman in the room.

“You need me, I’d take you through many places.” She said again.

“You not yet thirty and you already feel detached. I’ll show you the way of upsetting the old order of things. I’d feed your soul in many ways nothing else can.” She spoke with some sense of authoritative aura.

“Who are you?” I asked her.

“I’m your imagination, I came to you in the shape of a woman, because master, I know your love for women surpasses alot of things. But I come humbly thee before you and ask you to take me as your woman.” She said with much concern.

“Don’t let your creativity go to waste. In that realm you would be a deity, you’d create and kill characters. It’s a way of expressing your authenticity. You’d let some grow and others you’d twist their fates. Isn’t that what life does to us?” She asked.


I put all of my imagination and expressions into writing. It means a lot to me. It keeps me going. I’m married to her. She’d nag me endlessly for days if I haven’t penned down a single thought to paper. She’d keep me all night feeding me with innovative after innovative.

With a cigarette dangling from my lips occasionally as I typed my stories, I knew this was my way of turning the insides to the outsides and vice versa. I decided to be with her, spending the rest of my days doing something that I like and found passion in. I’m still in the attempts. It hasn’t been an easy one. I want to prove myself right that I can earn a living through writing arts. It’s the way I express mostly that pushes back all the negative chi. It’s through this negativity that suppression of the true creative expression occurs.

I just dont want to kill and create characters. I’d want them to live in a realm of awareness. Awareness of what goes in our day to day lives. I’d want them to operate from genuinity. There’s too much malice already in this world that can fill entire libraries. Through this writing, I’d be able to reach you. I’d take you to a far away place where by it’s you and your imagination. A utopia where you’d be you without having any worry of looking over your shoulder. And with each story a conscious message and concept is passed across.

I think it’s time I wear my glasses so that I can see her face better. I can put shoes on so that I can walk with her, hands held together.

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