Modjo

I’m tryin to make me go to rehab
I said no, no, no
Yes I been black, but when I come back
You wont know, know, know

- Amy Winehouse’s “Rehab” -

I wanted to write about something that happened just last week, but it’s too scary to pen it down, and although I crossed my fingers and touched on woods, I’m not superstitious. Well, not seriously superstitious. However, jotting down that little tale might result in bad karma, so I rather not share it.

Not just yet.

I’ve missed writing and it looks like I’ve lost my ability to write freely. Maybe it’s because of the overwhelming amount of things that are stored up here waiting to be poured out. Or perhaps, that my world’s landscape has changed a bit since my last post, that I find hard to keep up. Or, might I actually be stuck for words?

Of late, I find myself not measuring up to certain expectations. I think my friends expect me to be a bit more carefree, less serious, more fun, shall we say. I think the workplace expects me to be a little bit smarter each day. I think my mom expects me to tie the knot by the end of this year or next (with who or what, is actually the question I ask myself back whenever this topic comes up). My sister, expects me to be a style doyenne, donning on the latest trendy outfits, and experimenting with my looks.

It always feels like I have to deliver. I always feel like the other party will feel sorely disappointed, and as I’m a firm believer in what goes around, comes around, I try to. Deliver, that is. Get the job done.

So, maybe, this will indeed be the change I’m looking for.

Other than that, I’m still waiting for my modjo to write daily mundane going-ons.

Bring it on, modjo.