My left palm squeezed the crown of my head. My nails untangling strands in the forest of black hair that had now taken residence on my scalp, I hadn’t combed in a while. I didn’t need to; combing couldn’t change anything, my head would still remain a vacuum. I took a glimpse of the floor right beside me, kicking a piece of rumpled paper. One of the many rumpled pieces scattered around me that made an isle of me. I always believed that success was a fundamental part of joy. I thought success was a good thing. I was convinced that my talent only brings happiness. Auntie Beatrice called it ‘The thing that would change our lives’, it did. It changed hers, she got a car. It changed mine, I lost myself.

I was a young writer, a good friend, a happy person. That seemed like a long time ago as I sat puffing the roach I’d lit from the ash tray. I was corn for the press, they couldn’t pass up a chance to roast me. I looked at the joint, smiled and slowly dipped it into the tray. I used to lead a happy life. Used to; I became a celebrity. Everyone had their different theories for my sudden inability to write; my psychologist blamed it on pressure, aunt blamed her enemies, pastor attributed it to me ‘falling away from divine plan’.

After writing that article that ‘shaped the human mind’, I couldn’t pen any tangibility down. I hid this for a year, I wrote a lot of articles and books prior to this, I just kept recycling. What to do when I had exhausted all this recycled resources? Aunt had the answer for that. She found a young chap, She organized some essay competition and he won.

 “His brain is wired like yours,” she said as she tried imposing this boy on me. Of course, I didn’t agree but any new original piece I wrote, my audience criticized heavily. They claimed I had lost my creative touch. I had to succumb to her. It worked but only for a while. The stupid brat became greedy, wanting his names on my articles. He wrote them but they were mine. The money wasn’t enough for him, he wanted my fame now. Of course, I couldn’t agree. He ran off, the stupid baby, into the ever open arms of the press.

It was never hard to write, I would just sit in my sitting room cum bedroom and the words would come. Now I had my own room, but the words never came. Well, at least, I had my friends or did I? All my friends suddenly became inconsiderate; they claimed I had changed. Did they expect me to remain that squeamish boy? I was no longer nobody. My blog now had over 500,000 readers. They didn’t understand that I couldn’t just come over to chill. No, money didn’t change me, I just grew up, and they still remained kids. I loved them the same though but they grew jealous and all deserted me.

I gazed directly into my eyes, looking straight at the mirror right in front of me. I turned my face back to the book, “I will pen whatever comes to me now” I mumbled to myself. It was going to come, the words…I was going to shame all my friends and foes alike. My pen remained at the same spot, no words came. I put the pen away.

“The inspiration is almost here, maybe I just need another puff” I thought to myself as my fingers scavenged through the ash tray.

Writer’s Social Media:

Facebook: Ayomide Wayne

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About PenAStory

PenAStory is a group of young individuals with a passion for literature who have decided to come together to write under one platform. We seek to educate, inform as well as entertain our readers. Also, because we are targeting young literature lovers, we would like to touch on other interests of their lives hence the relationship category and because we all need a bit of motivation in our lives, we decided inspiration won't be so bad
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