In the heart of darkness, the darkest parts of the night, of our life, is when the light to fight back is found. Life will sometimes throw you for a loop, and no one can save you but yourself. By you, of course, I mean me. When I say you, I’m talking about myself, because there is more that connects you and I than either one of us would like to believe. Here’s a fun fact: Shaiye isn’t even my real last name. It’s my great-grandfather’s name. I carry it because it is a good name, and because it pairs well with my first name: Said. Yeah, that’s me. I’m a man just trying to survive this crooked rat race. I work 7 days a week, from sun-up to sundown, chasing provision. Survival is my middle name. Stress got me feeling like I can’t maintain, but I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine, just fine. i don’t feel like writing today, I don’t know why I’m forcing myself. i especially don’t feel like sharing any of what I write, so I’m not sure why I’m sitting here. Nobody wants to read uncertainty, or un-want, but yet, I persist in writing it. Whatever. I don’t care, dawg. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: I make it rain with the click-clack. Get back. When I’m rusty, my skills atrophy. This is what happens when you don’t write regularly. But Kool Aid don’t taste the same without sugar. And blue lives don’t taste the same if they matter. What? Well, whatever, nevermind.
What bugs me about writing in this space is that…. you know what? I feel like a short story:
A man walks into a store. Behind the counter is a horse. The horse greets him with a snort. The man looks left. He looks right. He is not mistaken. There is a horse behind the counter.
“How can I help you, sir,” said the Horse.
“Why is there a horse before me,” replied the man.
The horse looked down and to the left, then back up at the man again.
“You walked into my store and demand why I’m standing before you,” he asked. “I think I should be asking you the same thing.”
“You mean to tell me you own this place,” said the man.
“I’m certainly not standing here for free,” replied the horse.
“What kind of a con is this,” said the man. “Where is your master?”
“What kind of a person are you,” said the horse, “to ask such an insensitive question?”
“Insensitive for a human, maybe,” said the man. “But you’re not a human.”
“Does that make me less worthy of basic decency and respect,” asked the horse.
“They call it human decency for a reason,” said the man. “Unless I’ve been given a strong cough medicine without my knowledge, nothing about you says human.”
“I’m holding a conversation with you, aren’t I,” asked the horse.
“Even parrots can talk,” said the man. “Mimicry does not a conscience make.”
“You got some nerve, buddy,” said the Horse. “I need you to mosey up on out of my shop before I call the authorities.”
“I don’t think so,” said the man. “I don’t think you can do that.”
“Why not,” asked the horse.
“Because you don’t have hands,” said the man.
“And what if I don’t,” asked the horse.
“Last I checked,” said the man, “Hooves can’t hold phones.”
“That’s what you think,” said the horse. He then pulled out a hoof-friendly phone, voice activated. Modern technology is a marvel.