The sole intention is to convey the rambles of a solitary mind. But, how can I be certain that what I present is not a regurgitated amalgamation of predated manuscripts and that causality has infected every scribble and stroke to the extent that I am no longer the author but exist merely as the vat of a cocktail of scrolls? Why do I suppose that this endeavour belongs indeed to my hands? Why? If it has been predetermined then is it the right time? If I were a senior citizen then maybe I would have it on good authority to share the remnants of my thoughts spared by dementia and attribute it to the some revelation brought on by fading wit and newfound sense of retrogression.
Am I merely the proponent of mediocre philosophy that has failed to make it to the tabloid columns and has instead taken these bohemian convictions, using a modest command of the English language and spell check, to litter an already filthy cyberspace? The question of authenticity is the origin of much horror and trepidation. Should I then, trot down the sheng or mchongoano path? Even then if I write, “Kwenyu kumekauka mpaka huwezi fanya kitu chini ya maji!” does it sound more legitimate? Isn’t it another initiative altogether trying to delineate non-simple constructs via a medium I am expected to dominate?
Disregarding the how and to the why, why? To what end and for what profit? Can an effort without a goal stumble upon any meaningful purpose in its aimless trajectory? Would it be of any benefit? Would its abstract nature amount enough matter to fill the void that birthed it? Is there a void and how severe is its need to be filled? Is it widening? Or could it be a mass that has reached its yield point and has ruptured, spewing entrails and all. This e-vironmnet, already saturated with the chocking fetor of prose diarrhoea, does not require assistance. I shall not.
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