Kangsen Feka Wakai
When you write about me, all you write about me is what you know about me, what you’ve been taught and what you believe is true of me. Then you actually take the time, which by the way is very precious to you, to jot lines and paragraphs describing in graphic detail what you truly believe to be my reality. You weave narrations, cite instances, decipher plots and write my story on my behalf. And you always have facts and figures to back them. They never fail. Anyways what would they be without facts and figures? Aren’t you a vibraphone and proponent of reason?
But, you do it so frequently and with so much passion that at times I am almost convinced you actually give a damn! For the passion with which you write sometimes can be so moving and utterly convincing, not only does it send shivers through my spine it actually makes me think, makes a part of me what to reason with you. Then, there have been times that the sheer buoyancy with which you convey your message has even carried me away, swept me from my feet with a force so strong, it is dizzying—in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine.
I tell you; it is like the feeling I get from Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D-major.
My friend, you are quite the compelling storyteller.
When you write about me, all you can write about is what you imagine me to be, a caricature and outsider to your reality, the other. And for one with your intelligence, creativity and imagination, I am disappointed at your performance because so far, you have performed poorly in portraying me for who or what I really am.
Yes, you have. It is in fact very disappointing and saddening. You must be saying to yourself; to whom is he talking? What is he talking about?
But I am talking to you. Yes, you who claim to know me so. You. I am talking to you. You who claim to know it all. I am talking about the way you have chosen to imagine of me. I am talking about the lies you continue to tell. I am talking about the distortions, half-truths, myths, fabrications and nonsense. I am talking about the impending apocalypse of your making.
I am talking about how it came to be that you attempt to ridicule to fulfill what might be missing you. I am talking about you adding insult to injuring by writing what you write despite all we’ve experienced since our encounter.
Anyways, by now, you should have realized that I do not necessarily have issues with your writing. What I have a problem is what you write, especially when you decide to use time, which is very precious to you, to do so. Look at what you have written so far? Read what you continue to write about me. It is as though we never met. Maybe that is what it is. Perhaps our encounter was not as significant to you as it is to me. Maybe for you it was just something else to do, another conquest. But for me, it remains part of my reality. It has become a vital organ in my system. It nudges me. It is part of my being. I just can’t help it: my memory is long. Besides, I detest my present circumstances and cannot tell the future so I tend to cling to a past I do not know. A past I might not like, but my past to claim.
So, if this seems uncomfortable please just bear with me for an instant so that you and I can explore this issue once and for all. Do you ever take the time to think about what you write when you do write about me? Before you answer, let us be clear; this is not an attempt to stop you from writing about me. That is not my goal. How could I? I guess I want us both to address what you write, why you write and the aspects of my existence that fascinates you and inspire you. It must be fascination or perhaps some kind of curiosity on your part. What else can explain this obsession with me? So, tell, me have you ever taken the time to reflect on some of those adjectives, harsh adjectives, overt and covert, that you heap my way so frequently I have come to expect them, wearing them like a mask. It has become an alter ego. Like other facets of my existence, this is just another one of your many creations. I am your canvass and you are my Dali.
When you write about me the way you, do you ever wonder about the impact you might have on you or your audience? Do you ever reread yourself and taste the putridity of your own words, the bile that you spew. Do you ever consider how it might reflect on you? Do you consider those you are writing about? Do you? Or is it something you do to create a certain impression of me? Is it? If it isn’t so then why do you put so much effort and invest so many resources into such an enterprise, which I consider to be dubious.
Perhaps the answers to all these questions do not wrest with you. And even if it does what difference does it make. Besides, aren’t we all amnesiac these days? Having forgotten why you do what you do. Or is what you do an intentional attempt to hide something about you—that you know and suspect I do too, something revolting and sinister?
Or maybe it is something about us, yes, something about you and me, caught in cobweb web of history, dangling on fragile threads of lies. Something that keeps you awake at night…
Sincerely
KFW
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