"I'm sure waking up to find no one around you isn't as bad as trying to hug yourself in remembrance of your lover's embrace at dawn. It's not the days that scare me, it's the nights: nights that are romanticized by intellectuals and millions in the past, nights that are supposed to rain fairy dust on your heads and turn your afro into shimmering silk, pumpkins into carriages, people into characters out of mystic tales, mice into beautiful white horses; when the moonlight is dissected by the mosquito nets that are supposed to protect your childhood fantasies that can no longer dazzle you, and you can only pitifully only identify with the shadows that the pattern of the net creates and not the magic of light. You're entangled between binaries; hope and pragmatism, irrational optimism and heart wrenching reality, night and day. All you can do to soothe yourself is breathe in and out the veracity of your life but nothing fills in the void that occupies your external space, nothing at all. All you can do is close your eyes and stroke your waist the way they did, and wait for slumber to come creeping in through the spaces that create shadows of the same nets that the moonlight surrenders to and battles with simultaneously."
Art is both an escape and an attempt to capture that freedom and turn it into a tangible reality.
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