My Desperate Need For Purpose Might be the Death of Me.
The above title is available for a proposed rock song name.
Firstly, I would like to properly define myself as a hobby whore. I pick up a hobby, think it’s the greatest thing that has ever happened to me and then I stop returning their calls and air their texts. Sometimes I think about them, I think about how they’re doing but because it’s been so long I get scared about seeing them again. What if the connection isn’t the same? What if I’ve irrevocably damaged the bond between us? What if someone is doing them better than I used to? These questions stop me from picking up that hobby again, they’re at the back of my mind, the ideas, the prompts, the blank canvas but I am almost terrified.
One of my favorite things I used to do is draw, I wasn’t principally good at it — I had no training apart from Cultural Creative Art classes and/or real passion. My crush used to draw at the time and I also wanted to partake in what he found so joyous to do. I wanted that joy too, almost as much as I wanted him. He made it look easy, he made it look fun, he made it look like it could be my driving force in life. So I would google cartoon characters and draw/trace them cause that’s what he did too. It was frustrating but fun, when I was done I would stare at my work for hours and love it so much. First thing I’d do when I get to class was exhibit it to all my friends (him included of course) the drawing and take it back home. I painted too, did one mosaic and after two weeks I never and I mean never tried again. I’m fairly sure Nkemjika still draws though and I love that for him.
Another thing I tried was singing, I think almost everyone had this phase. Back at home, talent shows were kind of a big thing, family gathering level big thing. And in all of the talent shows, singing was involved. And I thought “This is easy. I could easily do that.” (I hope you see the pattern). And while Simon Cowell would curse out a handsome contestant about they’re lack of ‘star quality’, I would take excuse and belt out small, really small, note in the kitchen and bow to my fans/kitchen cutleries. Then in my compound, we would hold talent competitions, not competitions really because they were never any winners but we’d put on a show. I would sing and it was good, it was good enough for me and my friends. I started to think far, I thought I was the next best thing, I thought anyone who got to hear me sing was so lucky and blessed to receive such audio beauty. I started singing in church and school, unprovoked too. Yes, I lead a few songs at graduations and church programs and people would say I was ‘so so good’ but then I stopped believing them and also inevitably singing, in public at least. I also did try, with all of my heart, songwriting because of the movie Coyote Ugly. I actually hate Violet for making it look so simple.
Writing however, I’ve always written. Even from primary school, I would steal my dad’s A4 papers and fold them into two and write a story about a rockstar/painter traveling to New York( the only place my 7 year old brain knew at the time) to ‘discover herself’, I would also sell these pieces for paper money; girlboss activities even as a 7 year old. Then along the timeline Wattpad came out and it seemed like my saving grace, I was ready to break all my pencils, cramp all two of my thumbs and waste all of my data, but then the lack of engagements made me sick to my toes and I stopped. I also had a blog — multiple ones, just like this one, one was cute and it was pink but then I forgot the password and was hesitant to buy a real domain name anyways so I let it die. This does not change the fact that I think writing is the only proper hobby for me — I’m full of too many opinions and I think I’m always right and even better, I write for not a single soul but my own.
My other failed hobbies, in no specific order, imclude; podcasting, dancing, I know I downloaded a DJ application at some point in my life, making comics (another romance infused hobby, for the same boy might I add.), baking (lockdown hobby.), poetry too and so on. Though I admit that my friends would lie to me about the DJ one, I think I was moderately good at all of these things — I was good but I didn’t feel good enough. They just didn’t stick or stand out or peak for me. Those people made their craft look like breathing air but it was not just breathing air, they were difficult and required tenacity and patience. You just had to love your art even if no one else did.
Sometimes when I consume creative media, music, stories and so forth, I think this person really put their whole insides into this certain piece because I can really feel it, I can tell the parts of them they’ve shed into their craft and it’s really beautiful. I want people to feel what I put out too, I want to also like to touch people’s insides (with consent) the way other people do me. I also want to feel free and true when I put out my feelings on a canvas, I want to feel weightless doing the things I love — I want to love easy. But it’s difficult, none of these skills are easy, they don’t require just talent or innate nature, they need hard work, time, shamelessness too. It’s scary sometimes to write, I pick it up and I drop it, like a toxic relationship that does not want to end. But I must confess that I like to write, I like to talk, I love to give my opinions and I like to tell the stories of all characters in my head. It’s fun, it’s pleasurable for me. I’ll make mistakes but it’ll be okay because I’ll learn from them and correct them, I’ll love my art.
This means that I have to refuse for my desperate need for purpose to be the death of me because I live to write.
