DAY 2: Dear Old Dismas,
I know that on opening this letter, your heart is anticipating an apology for leaving. Darling, that is far from the intent of my writing. Here I am, two years from the day I promised I would make it without you. I am happy, wildly free and contented. I am living the life of my dream; writing stories of human happiness and suffering, composing poems of love and pain. It is a simple life. It is everything I have ever wanted. Every day is a challenge, every day is an adventure. And no, arrogance to your face is not my aim either. I am simply writing for old times’ sake. You don’t believe me? Read on.
Departing ways was best for both of us. You were too low on energy, and I, on the other side adored a balanced life. You compromised everything for the comfort of others, even when it hurt both of us. You never once cared about my needs, only of those whose smiles you misconstrued as loyalty. You wanted fame. Dreams of immortalizing yourself in the books of history kept you up into late nights. What were your passions? Nothing. But somehow you were beyond conviction that you will be a great person, build a huge house, marry a beautiful lady and then be happy. You see, our priorities were inverse! All I wanted, was to be me.
Hell no! I am not saying that something was wrong with that. It might please you to know that I borrowed your big caring and passionate heart. The difference is, I always accompany it with logics. In the terms you might understand better, that means; When they break their promises, I walk away. When my muscles are fatigued and I want to give up, I push through the pain. When I am crushing on her and my tingling hearts wants to give everything just to get close to her, I simply pretend. And if I can’t pretend any longer, and I pour my heart out and she doesn’t reciprocate. Well, that’s tricky, I try laughing it out. No, it don't ease the pain.
In the afternoon of 21st April, 2017, a tender bodied, naive and beardless young man walked into the conference room of Hennessey hotel in Westland, Nairobi. His heart racing, his steps faltering. In the meeting, the big names in the Kenyan literary scene, Burt Award panelists and representatives of major publishing houses were present. The immense potential the opportunity held was clear, and yet he was nervous. Heads turned towards him, the facilitator paused. With a grimace on his smooth face, he made his way to the seat reserved with his name. From that chair he never departed, only after everyone had left the room. I am on the verge of regrets, but I know better. Do you? I hope you still don’t shy from networking.
From the smoothness of my chin, beards have sprout. From the bliss of my ignorance, logicalities have risen. From the humor in my flaws, and from the ridicule of their laughter, I found strength to be me. In the irritating delays due to your illogical bashfulness, I learnt patience. Nowadays I put on casuals and enjoy ever second of the day, unlike you who insisted on masking your naivety with officials clothing. And when I feel like it, I leave my hair shaggy. I still read, by the way. Although the topics that excites my interest are more mature. Allow me pen off, before we both misjudge my intention of writing to you.
PS: I tasted alcohol last year, and I decided to stick to your idea of alcohol free life.
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