If art imitates life then I want to believe the reverse is also true. For is life not art unfiltered, uncut, raw? This relationship cannot be one directional, both are inextricably linked and exist symbiotically. Perhaps if I put more of how I see me – myself and my kind – and how I would like to be perceived into my words, I will see it reflected in life. Satre says: “The other sees me, therefore I am.” Is it too much to want this other’s gaze to be understanding, if not kind?
I will fight this war with words, my pages the battle ground. One woman, armed with a pen. Here’s to hoping mine is as mighty as I’ve heard it can be.

Tales of a maladjusted adult

I’m not sure why I kept going, why despite my repulsion of his dudebroness, if invited to spend time with him, I would. It was easier to pretend at first, my roommate had convinced me that and him and I were compatible on multiple levels. In retrospect I’m not quite sure why I trusted her judgment. It’s dubious at best on a wide variety of subjects, as if she’s just learning how to interact with the world and subscribes to cookie-cutter opinions and schools of thought as per her vision of what’s in vogue in young afropolitan circles, conforming to a carefully curated individuality with near religious fervour.
Still, I listened. The obligatory sexual tension was thoroughly explored by our first three meetings. It felt stilted, like we were re-enacting some pre-ordained script: Insert hand between leg. Touch left breast. Press X for arousal. We had the decency to stop pretending ours was a carnal arrangement after that. No more sexy time. I can’t say I was disappointed by this turn of events. Now there was a chance to develop an actual friendship however, the awkwardness that plagued our initial interactions had not yet subsided. At first I thought it was just the clumsy baby steps of a fledgling relationship. I was very wrong. Socially we were oil and water. In the name of civility, I tolerated his pompous superiority. At least that’s what I told myself; admitting that I was so alone that any presence, even one as patronizing as his, comforted me on a fundamental level was a truth I wasn’t quite ready to confess.