This post is dedicated to Monica Wamuha, for always believing in my creativity. (Standing up, and making a salute to you.)
I have been writing this blog for close to an year now, and it is only lately that I feel the attention due me for the effort i make so often to please you, my dear reader. i have almost given up on numerous occasions, terrified and cowed by the great monstrosity that is the dragon of despair fueled by the wrath of unappreciation. Sometimes, it takes so much internal gumption to marshal the intellect, witticism and creativity needed to make a post deserving of attention; in a world where time is limited and a culture of reading no longer exists. And yet all is not gloom, for in the darkness of intellectual ignorance, a ray of light shines through splitting the darkness and watering the seed of hope so that it grows; anchored not in self interest but for the satiety of readers like Monica.
But it would be wrong, in fact a grave violation of human decency to assign all glory to her alone. New readers, of note being Lucy, wayward foe, Esta, and sometimes great pips like Abby, Kagwe and ken; guys whose attention showers the forest in which my creativity wonders unhindered and unchallenged. When my mind is locked in the slammer, and those guys in D block have sent their threats to intimidate the gray matter from functioning properly, the encouragement of these friends comparable to a presidential pardon freeing my intellect to ran amok in the challenging universe of bloggosphere.
And yes, “A new friend both in life and blog is like a drizzle to a thirsty flower.” Ravaged by sun, and choked by drought, it withers and lie forlorn waiting for the eventful slow and agonizing death. Outside my crib, planted so long ago stands several flowers and plants that aid in appeasing the eyes to the few visitors paying homage to my humble abode. In the dry season, this majestic plants wither and curl up and are devoid of life and majesty. They fail in their duty, for they cheer me not while my moods beaten by the waves of a difficult life plummets. But the dark clouds gather over head, looming over mortals like great roman battalions. And the heavens open, letting forth the purity that must be the cries of the grieving angels. grieving for what is about to be lost, to give a new leash of life to these plants and the owners so close to despair.