Anachronistic. The premise of this piece is entirely undefined, but that won’t stop me from putting my finger on a keyboard or my pen to paper, the choice of which is also undefined, and drafting it anyway. Why would I start with the word anachronistic? What does it mean? I dive into the many transparent layers of Tolu’s existential internal musings to seek an answer and beg (ask? No, implore) you to discard whatever meaning the dictionary has told you.
July began with a frenzy of events that I have not fully recovered from, not until those events are rectified by the powers that be – oh, the terror of not being in control! I often looked to a stark intolerance for failure as fuel for my many journeys through the carceral ruins of the place I call a university in search of a solution, but that intolerance never was enough. I would come back on some days masking tears with lamentations to my friends, who had been resting after a rigorous examination, or with more food than my body needed, which would eventually get burned in the next day of ultimately futile wandering. I quickly realized that doing it alone was completely pointless; I needed someone with considerably more power than me, or my friends, or my parents, to help, or at the very least advocate for me. However, seeking out this higher power proved to be even more futile than any effort I had previously made to correct the issues on my own. The issues are beyond the scope of the undefined premise of this piece, but I can assure you of the severity of these issues. They are so severe to the point where the disapproval of my appeal to correct them disqualifies me from graduating. In another piece, I will go in-depth into the frankly idiotic foundation of this predicament. But, now you have an idea of why I was completely and unrefutably dedicated to the cause of defending my rights. However, as is characteristic of fascist dictatorships founded on hyper-religious and deeply carceral values, you don’t get shit. But there is hope for me – akin to the angel of light descending from the heavens with outstretched divine hands saying, “Fear not! The God whom you serve has sent me to save you!” However, the god to save me is not a being of divine nature misconstrued by human agenda as an authoritarian, but a human being in a panel of maybe five or six – the covenant Illuminati. I have no skin in this game, no leveraging power, no say – all I can do is hope, but hope is so deeply reassuring. Hope allows you to forget. Hope allows you to put pressing issues at the back of your mind and enjoy the present you’re irrefutably a part of. Hope only dies when you die, which happens when hope dies. “I am alive, so I must hope” is a modus operandi fit for any accomplished “live-r.” Although an operandi, I am not too enthusiastic to adopt because as much as it appeals to one’s fragile self-esteem, hope kills the other side of the idiomatic “target.” The second side of the stakes. The one we do not like to consider. The equal possibility that nothing will work out. “I must hope, but I must also face this ominous and unavoidable alternate reality” is a better modus operandi, one I believe is more comfortable for me to adopt.
Now I am at a place of reflection; reflection and anticipation, and I can write this undefined but cathartic reflection of the horror that July was. However, as is with everything, the passage of time proves once again to be the end of all afflictions that were, are, and are to come. I hope the time passed in reading this has also ended the affliction of what the hell I meant by my opening paragraph.