Fate, destiny or do I just not know what the fuck I am doing with my life?
When I was a child, I used to write so much, a new storybook every week, and when I was not writing, I was reading a book. My childhood best friend Mercy was a big nerd and a large consumer of books, and I didn't just love her as my friend; I envied how smart she was, she was a straight-A student, and I figured she was that way because she was always reading.
When we were little, we would write books together and talk about how we would become big authors named MerIb (short form for Mercy and Ibukun) if that needs to be clarified. We are not friends anymore, at least not to that extent, but every time I write, I remember how integral she was to the process.
In high school, I didn't just fancy the idea of being cool and fun. I was both cool and fun. My sanguine personality shone a lot in everything I did, and at some point, being that way was a clear indication that I was meant to be in entertainment or show biz in general. The further realization came when I was made social prefect. It was an obviously sealed deal of my destiny.
Before this becomes boring and unbearable for whoever takes their time to read it, I went to uni and, for whatever reason, studied Petroleum and Natural Gas Engineering. I often burst into laughter when I remember how skewed my life became. Of course, I was beyond miserable in uni; I hated it so much, and I still struggle to write about it, and when I speak on it, I infuse a lot of jokes to mask how traumatized I was and still am from the experience.
When I applied for my current job, I had no expectations; I was sick of being depressed. I needed a distraction, something to take my mind off how bad my life was at that moment and when I got it, even with the very meagre pay, I was super ecstatic. For a long time, I had dreamt of working for a magazine and being invested in the growth and my growth as well. But none of those was on my mind when I got the job. All I wanted was a distraction, and it served that purpose.
I don't do so much writing there, but it feels like I am finally home, not because of the people I work with, although they are a very important factor. I felt out of place the first few months, I was not writing then, and that didn't matter. The passion they have towards what they do, and the dedication to growth, my reignited passion has a lot to do with my manager—never seen anyone so young, so hardworking and still attentive.
I am still excited about the place I work, and my love for books and writing has not been fully restored, because, till now, I struggle to identify as a writer. My parents write very well, and my sister is very skilled with words, so I may not be the writer. I am eloquent enough to pen my thoughts semi-intelligently.
The fire burning in me may be from the need to prove to myself that I can be good at something simply because I love it, or it's just excitement doubling as fuel. In a few months, god willing, I'll be off to a new adventure, learning something else that has nothing to do with literature or the arts.
Writing and loving literature at age 10 is so different from being 25, confused and perceived as jobless when you introduce yourself as a writer. Is this my life being full circle (obviously not full circle, considering how young and how much of a baby I am)?
So what the fuck am I actually doing with my life? I am not going to lie that I have a definite answer to that question, but for once, I'm not in uni and drowning in the sea of depression.
