Upon this rock, where this worn out sandal rests, is where I come to reflect in the evenings, just outside the digs there, I sit and watch as the wind gently brushes the leaves, most stories here are thought upon this rock, I call it my Kit-Mikai, my element is reached when I stare into the distance, as the cold breeze grazes against my lips, I feel the story slowly pour into my head and I don’t get back in the house till I have something my teeth can sink into, or just when it gets too dark; not that I’m afraid of the dark it’s just that I don’t like it that much, who does anyway?
By far, the best writer we have, Jackson Biko once wrote that some stories don’t need guidance, they can tell themselves in complete isolation. You see, it has been a ritual now to lock myself up in my room and visit this chap’s blog, I sit upright in bed and worship the words that come out of his pen, and I bet my ass I’m not the only one in this boat; we who light candles in our hearts and repeatedly read the pieces, we who read till we can feel the words in our throats. With time I have decided that I will not hide anymore, I will proudly stick my neck out of the water and say that apart from being a photographer I am a writer. But wait, there’s a problem here. Forgive me if it’ll seem like sulking from now.
The thing is, after that decision, I stopped guiding my stories. Six or seven posts into this blog I felt like I was the shit, the stats were so high I was ready to take on what life had to throw at me, I bathed in reflected glory, and I was a grandee in this craft. Right now, quite honestly every piece feels like detritus, utter rubbish. I posted here last Monday and the Friday before that but it killed me inside, it killed me that there have been no visitors lately, no comments, and one view, but it’s still very heart-breaking. Stats are to writers what chocolate is to 14 year old girls, what likes are to people with no social light, they are some kind of soothsayer and hope for better things to come.
Last week was a lugubrious one-always wanted to use that one, lugubrious. Got the lowest stats, last week; you might not know this but stats lull me to sleep, I pee better. This isn’t a pity post, no, there are a couple of faithful readers out there, those that make everything seem much better, those that have cheered me on since day 1, those that will never give me the blue ticks, which are easily the worst creation in social media. Bastards!
At this, the 13th post, it feels detrimental to write, but I won’t stop writing, I won’t stop telling the story as it is behind the lens, I might take very long breaks and lie that it’s writer’s block but it really would be to get over another stat-less piece. I have grown to love writing even though it was scary at first, I would drop it soon, which was the plan. Now I feel that my photography feels more at home when writing goes along with it, the two live cheek by jowl. I can’t say I’m begging, but support for our very own maybe?