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Why I write

By VictorTheMuchwezi

Why I write? Well, that can only be sumed up in one ridiculous parable. 

The world I live in is like this, it is one big hall, haunted by that pungent scent that turned your stomach inside out. The stench is seasoned with a touch of that dried ketchup scent that attaches itself to all kafundas (tiny wooden restaurants) mostly found in universities. 

Unlike the typical kafunda, the world is luxurious enough to hold a long glass wall running from one end to another, that partitions it in two sections. It is one of those multi colored and thick glasses that refracts light so much so that anything seen on the other end is a distorted blob of mass. 

Fortunately for me, I am on the less crowded side of this wall. Fairly clean, less stench ridden and oddly cozy, however it comes with a few downsides. 

I can’t listen or be heard when I speak to anyone on the other side. The blasted thing allows me to exist but not to live.

I can’t complain much; a few people are able to see me through this covulated object, however, these people can only see some distorted version of me. They laugh, speak and bond on my account, however, they seem to be existing in some altered reality where I am a version of me I can’t recognise.

Now, I am able to see the other side of this glass wall after extreme focus. I can’t tell if what I am seeing is right or wrong.  Their world is one crooked piece of work. It is bent and broken in all the wrong places, and quite frankly I feel left out. I see the world through this glass and though it’s colours are quite the sight.

God knows how much I’d like to share my view with the people across the glass, however, all they hear are my muffled tales.

At the age of twelve, I wrote my first story on the glass. Some people were able to see the chaotic symphony while others ignored it. 

Deep down I was grateful. I was satisfied with the small fact that some saw it. The next day i painted at another end of the glass and a few others gathered around it. 

The distorted creatures on the other side were starting to ‘hear’ my message. They learnt my name, they frowned at my insults and growled at my odd perspective, but all in all they finally knew what I was saying.

I was finally able to tell them that I loved their smiles; I loved their laughs; I hated their cynicism, and hated their self absorbed nature. 

All in all, I loved their crooked and distorted nature

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