Osadolor Williams Osayande

Being experientially human enacts developments and declines, summarised into how much of the corporeal and incorporeal world receives our plumbing and harnessing, while contemporaneously maturing into consciousness. This has informed my stand on purpose – especially the acme of its sort being self-development – and instilled a dutiful quest to embrace all the faculties within my nature. Modestly, I give my definition of self-development (to purport why writing remains a task ineluctable) as: The optimum realisation of self in relation to God, and the donation of such a realisation to humanity.

When I first creatively wrote, it was poetry, a sonnet of which I would feel mild shame to share for how shallow in articulation it fledged out. Albeit I wrote poetry because of Wole Soyinka’s ‘ABIKU’, drawn by a magic I never fully unearth till date. When I embraced it as something higher, a vocation, I happened upon prose and the sublime liberation it facilitated every time I subjected myself to its experience. The facet to me called ‘writer’ wielded my mind with such profoundness I latently discriminated against other facets for their inability to compel my mind into focus as keenly and as undivided. To birth believable characters, construct the nexus between emotions and thoughts as taught by, and in variance from the real world, and to subtly yet satisfactorily shelve my creations cum donations into history, I have had to reach for the abyssal of my deeps and the highest of my highs. They are my intuition (often subdued in activities not writing), perverse observation, homespun psychology and ever-mutating philosophies. In all these, my literary solace in silence, solitude, solemnity, and at times, somnolence and its potency to create moods, mutated my inner government into one with a self-possession as easily reachable as my pen and pad. It was my earliest chance at the relation with a route into consciousness, the possibility of an inner government – dissimilar from the power of inure against the forces of events, but the right to be conferred with before the imbuing. Theatrical as it sounds, a thing like sadness would ask, “Do I have the right to plague you?” Writing created the mutual respects between the extrinsic and intrinsic, and the choice to decide.

An awareness of the subliminal is the crux of writing to me. Enriching my prose with blurs between reality and fantasy inadvertently made me into a proselyte of the real world, led into the most terrifying grace of how much more we learn without even being deliberate. I realised the latent likelihood of minds existing androgynously; all my characters were not male. I once wrote a poem on menopause which swamped my email with responses from women saying essentially, “Thank you sister.” I forgave them with a bloated sense of having attained paranormal cerebral ethereality.

Thus, the task behoves the writer to explore the faculties’ expanse, become a donated eye with which to view life through, offered with truthful finesse.

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