Damilola Bajo

Journal Entry #366 ___ Damilola Bajo Title: H ​ ere. I stared anxiously as the hand of the clock moved and struck midnight. It was a new hour. A new day. A new year. With all the joy I could muster, I screamed, “Happy new year!” I mean, why not? I was just gifted a chance by God to begin, afresh, on a new slate. I could rewrite my wrongs, or maybe even draft a new book. I felt my brain release insane amounts of dopamine. I would conquer the world. I was sure I could. Reality was rude. 2 From waves of defeat to waves of despair, I sailed aboard a lonely ship across an ocean of despondency and dejection. And I’m not just throwing words around. I sunk and I drowned. (Rinse and Repeat) I composed several poems to convey the depths of my miserable misery, but none sufficed. I scribbled rigorously in my journals all of my woes as they occurred (or after) in hopes that I would process them quickly and put them out of my mind, but it was futile. I turned to music for solace and warm comfort, but it grew hollow. Empty. I had ridden the tides of agony, been thrown across its littoral zone to mock my desire for air, and plunged right back into the void, where it thought I belonged. Then, I thought I did. Existing grew tedious; and with every passing second, I contemplated its futility. I grew adept at scepticism, questioning whatever was brought before me. I even questioned the point of questioning. I grew fatigued. I was crushed by the weight of weariness. What life was left in me was drained by degrees. Many nights left me dead. And I experienced rigour mortis quite a number of times, coming back to pseudo-life with the day, and, of course, receding into the jaws of death at the sight of an evening star. And, sometimes, it was the other way around. It was a cycle of doom. Consistent 3 and consecutive doom. Who controls destinies? I asked myself that a couple of times in a couple of different ways. Oh, misery and I were a couple. We were inseparable. And, yet, I found myself serving platters filled with positive platitudes at my reception to those who confessed to courting misery. ​“You’ll be okay.” “This is all for a reason.” “You’re tougher than you think.” But I felt my hide give way for the flames that surrounded me. I was burning for I resided in hell. By volition? Who chooses wretchedness? Maybe I lent the hope I sought to receive. I mean, we pour out warmth because we crave it– or the joy that follows. It is born from selfishness. Fish love. We are self-seeking beings, after all. We realise that to receive, we must give, so, we do give, expecting to receive. I mean, if we didn’t, then we wouldn’t have hope and despair would not accompany our unrequited efforts. 4 But, despite it all, here I am, with the grit and fortitude to give a tour d’horizon of the melancholia that graced my year– an overflow of the tribulations I was plagued with in 2019. Years have become more than numbers to me. They are agents of anguish, who, in diligent faithfulness, seek my demise. But, listen to me, vile, obnoxious and vicious savages, I am here. I overcame. I rose and healed from the fiery darts you flung at me. I conquered. And like King David drew Goliath's sword from his sheath and decapitated him, I have executed all of your bloodthirsty cronies, subduing the rest beneath my glorious feet. Because the gates of hell canst prevail against the Temple of the Most High. Here’s the link to my blog: https://debbiebajo.wixsite.com/website/post/_here