It is in the midst of the populace,
Where others find solace in bitter rhetoric about football victories pyrrhic,
That I find myself perturbed, lost and out of place.
There is a depth to which these links do not sink,
Parts to which these sails never steer our collective ship,
So much I hear that I need not keep,
And many a time I prefer to disappear into my ink.
Banter is splendid but how often do we pander just to matter,
When of fact is the blatant mismatch of our current rant:
criticising those we only see from in front of screens in scripted scenes,
whining endlessly about media-proclaimed demi-gods that are simply human beings,
losing our tempers in defence of the seen unseen,
Always forgetting to question what it all really means.
I read an article today about artists suffering,
from more than just the whims of life and a fiat system that overrules bartering,
They hurt in the worst way — from within,
They endure and — more often than we know — succumb to grave, lonely pain,
But we are quick to trash their efforts or shower them with overwhelming praise,
Quicker still to exacerbate the anxieties they face by giving them surveilled days,
So relentless in our pursuit of even a sliver of their acknowledgment we are,
That we forget at our core we are nothing but par.
Next time you see one at a bar,
Sitting alone smoking a cigarette and not the illusory cigar,
Don’t question why they aren’t doing something more baller,
Ask yourself why you thought that first,
Then proceed to wonder and
hopefully ask how they genuinely are.
Yours in anxiety,
Evans Mbora Campbell.