Dear Blank Page
It’s just you, me and the rain now. Lets play. Better late than never right? Yeah I know ‘Never late is better’. You always like to smugly remind me.
I remember when we first met. You warned me. You said I would become a slave to the ink. The blank page the plantation. The pen the master’s whip. I was hesitant. You challenged me. ‘What are you waiting for?’ you asked me. ‘Dont you realise that you are both the slave and the master. The question and the answer’. With that I picked up Peter’s pen. You were pleased. Tafadzwa was unchained.
Winter is here. Days are shorter. Nights so much longer. It’s colder. It’s wetter. The lure of the cold amber coloured nectar of the gods has been replaced for me by the roar of the hot and fierce amber coloured flames of burning firewood. You on the other hand have always been drawn more to the soothing crackling sound of fire when its only light and flickering and the light illumination of its embers is reflected magnificently in your eyes. That relaxing ambience only a fireplace can provide. Your weakness.
I remember the beginning. I was a nervous wreck and came across as a rambling idiot you were patient with me. You held my hand. It was comforting. With time my resolve strengthened and my confidence grew. You gently nurtured and gave my transient thoughts a home. You allowed me to catalogue them unencumbered by the complexities of plot, narratives or dialogue. I thrived in the idiosyncratic self indulgence of it all. I let my innocent aggressive intuitiveness guide me. There were little epiphanies here, there and everywhere. I walked the fine line between profundity and bathos. Discovering along the way that the line between self-indulgence and universality can be perilously thin at times.You let me be.
When invited my friends over – its no secrect it didnt always go smoothly. You worried they would discourage me. Your fears were almost realised when they quizzed me ‘Why do you want to write?’ I stuttered and mumbled incoherently. What I wanted to answer with was that ‘I felt like my childlike creativity, purity and honesty was being crowded by all these grown thoughts’. Writing was ‘a custody battle for my inner child.’ I didnt say all that. Defiantly I just picked up Peter’s Pen and wrote. It was my safe space. A place I could go when I needed a peaceful detachment from the rest of the world. In the process flexing my poetic licence to give the mundane its beautiful due.
What have I learned since picking up Peter’s Pen? Well I am still on that roller-coaster of discovery. What I have come to realise though is that my inner child never left. He had just been a lost boy for a while. When you invited me to play, something beautiful happened. I found my way back to Neverland. Oh Tinker Bell, look what you done.
I will be waiting by the fireplace.
The Boy Who Wouldnt Grow Up