I enjoy writing on WordPress. I feel it’s got realer people

You’re a writer or you write sometimes. You must have battled with where to write at one point or another. You have accounts everywhere; Medium, WordPress, Quora, Tumblr. But which one is the best platform for you?

I enjoy writing on WordPress. I feel it’s got realer people, people who see the effort in creativity. I was active on Tumblr a while back in the school days, but I kinda got jaded with the never-ending posts and all, and also, Tumblr has to do with a lot of gifs. I don’t even know what’s up with Tumblr right now, I think I saw somewhere online it’s about to be sold by…

Though Facebook isn’t open-source, I used to post a lot on there, but they are a million times meaner that Blogging platforms. I could post something really detailed and get about a dozen likes. And you can’t even see it on any search engine. So yea, fuck Facebook sucks.

I’m not on Medium right now, I don’t even know what it’s like. Medium… sounds moderate.

There are a lot of these platforms popping up everywhere like popcorn.

“Are you on Pinterest? Are you on Instagram? Quora is a good place to get readers…”

Dude! Cut me some slack. So I should be everywhere on the internet because I want to write.

Sometimes I even feel exposing yourself on the internet isn’t such a good idea. I think of Googling my name Victor Enesi and I’m caught with fear. Who knows what I’m going to see? Lol.

What if I’m at an interview and the interviewer is like “Let’s look him up online, let’s see what he’s about.” And they check me up and see all these conflicting texts. *Facepalm*


Thanks for reading, beautiful people. Without you the internet wouldn’t make much sense. It would just be a bunch of cooled hard drives marking 1s and 0s.

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I feel writers don’t get rewarded enough

I woke up this morning inspired to complete the poem I was writing yesterday just before I dozed off. Here it goes:

I don’t feel like writing
Zigzags in the deep sky
Deadly thunder strokes lightening
Illuminating my empty sheet
Somebody keeps wondering
For why is all the prattling

Food on the table, comfort
Mount Everest on my plate
A lava of stew
My spoon makes the jump
For the good of life

Why do we write
Bleeding thoughts on trees
Mother nature keeps crying
Her heart keeps melting
The cost of self expression
Minting her broken heart
Why do we write

Yea, I didn’t feel like writing at all, but I just decided to try. Half the time, I’m grappling with the question; why do we write? And where do we choose to write on?

I feel writers don’t get rewarded enough. In fact, writing has become so undesirable to the point that writers are so scared to tell people that they write. Telling a friend or stranger that you write is like leaking out a dirty secret. Writing now feels like an art that belonged to the 20th century. This is a world of science now, of computers, phones, spaceships, gadgets and whatnot.

But companies like WordPress.com and Facebook and Twitter and the likes still rely on writing to sell! Yea! Everybody goes on there to write what they feel. Just imagine Twitter without words. Imagine Facebook without posts. Imagine this very WordPress without our sentences and paragraphs. Mission impossible, right?

And still the art is ridiculed, while clueless people make billions off unsuspecting writers.

If the laws of nature permeated our human actions, then you should get paid for every sentence you construct anywhere on the internet. But we both know that human actions are far from logical.


Thanks for reading, friends. I hope we all figure out this writing thing. I believe everybody in the world has got something to say, and creativity should be rewarded. 

Tobi, Monday, 9 October

 TOBI
. . .

MONDAY, 9 OCTOBER, 2017

MORNING

 

Blaring horns and raucous babble seep into my sleep. It’s the usual, but it gets me thinking, Can’t anyone get some sleep in this freaking city?!

I trundle up. Today I want to do things fast, or at least start the day with precision. I make for the bathroom and quickly brush my teeth. I put some water on the fire for bathing. I want to be brisk, but it doesn’t mean I must bathe cold water.

Puppy, my fast growing bulldog is flat on the other side of the bed. I signal for him to follow me and he springs up. We both stroll to the kitchen where I unroll his bag of dog food and poor him some in his bowl.

The day is promising, hot. I guess the heat signals the end of the wet season. But it’s camouflage, because in mere hours heavy rain is going to be pelting down.

After taking my bath, I head downstairs to my mailbox half expecting to see a letter from Vivian. Puppy follows. In my heart I’m happy that she’s kept to our pact thus far, that she hasn’t damned the consequences, that’s if there are any. I open the lid and the box is empty. I’m sad. She had the whole weekend to write back to me. Could it be that she’s double thinking about the pact? Maybe she thinks it was childish after all. But we made the pact in love. People do childish things in love.

I take out my phone from my pocket and open Facebook Messenger. I write her a message:

You had the whole weekend
to write back to me. Are you
chickening out of our pact?

I know she hasn’t seen it because her tiny picture hasn’t dropped under the message. But it’s blue and sent. She’d probably read it after work.

I feel childish, I feel like I’m distracting her from something more serious. But the pact is serious to me too, to us. We made an agreement to always write each other letters, no matter what happens, to preserve the age-old art of letterwriting. My mind darts to the times we were still together; we would write letters to each other and bring it along to a date. It was our thing, it was one of the things that set us apart from thousands of other lovers around.

I head back upstairs, past the floors of flats. Today I imagine I’m going to write something. I must write something. Everyone is at work doing something, right? So naturally I must be doing something too. Writing is more than just art, it’s a job.

I do some push-ups to heat my body and soul for the task at hand. I flip open my laptop and launch Word. First thing I see is the cursor blinking at the end of the last word. I blink back. Empty.

Hey 26

1

 

Hey,

I saw your post on Facebook about work and all. I never knew it was that bad. I think you should take a leave or something. My brother, Collins, works in a bank too. He tells me often about the unrealistic targets set for him and how he has to magically meet them all. Sometimes I wonder why jobs have to be so hard and impossible. People work so hard and yet aren’t happy. I wanted to comment on the post, but I’m not so active on social media these days and I intend to keep it that way. And it’s your fault kind of. You made me post pictures of us while we were still together. If I delete those posts now people will know that something happened. And the fact that I haven’t posted new pics of us is already make people suspicious. So I decided to stay off social media altogether because I don’t want to answer questions. Besides, Facebookers are always craving for the full gist of every breakup. I don’t want to give them that satisfaction.

Floridians encouraged to shoot at hurricane Irma

Hurricane Irma is fast approaching Florida and bringing with it its wrath.

And the best way Ryan Edwards (from Florida) thinks to deal with the storm is to ‘fire bullets at it’.

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The Shoot at Irma page

He created an event on Facebook that has attracted 46,000 people. Thousands are interested in his idea of shooting the storm.

“It’s time we took a stand against this bully!” reads the event description. “This is our home, nobody drives us out of our own territory.

“Join me in this fight as we shoot flames at Hurricane Irma and dissipate her on the spot.”