I used to believe inspiration knew my address.

That if I left my window open, creativity would stroll in, drop her slippers by the door, raid my fridge, and leave behind poetry that tasted like rain.

Now...

She doesn't even reply my texts.

Funny.

Because people still ask, "When next are you dropping something?" As if words are pure water. As if I can just tear the edge and pour.

I laugh.

 "Very soon." 

But "very soon" has been wearing the same outfit for months.

My notes app has become a museum.

Titles. Half sentences. One banger opening line. 

Then...

Nothing.

Writer's block is strange.

It whispers "Maybe you've outgrown this. Maybe you've lost it. Maybe the last thing you wrote was the best you'll ever write."

Then suddenly, you start scrolling instead of creating.

TikTok.

Instagram.

 "Just five minutes."

Five hours later, I've memorized everybody else's creativity while abandoning mine.

I kept thinking the breakthrough would arrive like electricity, unexpectedly with everybody shouting,  "Up Nepa!"

But art...

Art is different.

Sometimes, you have to become your own power supply.

Even when fuel is expensive.

ESPECIALLY when fuel is expensive.

I have words.

Too many, actually.

I rehearse entire performances while bathing.

I win arguments that happened three years ago.

I give award-winning interviews to nobody while cooking.

The words rush like Lagos floods on a rainy Monday morning.

But the moment pen meets paper...

Silence.

It's almost insulting.

Because how do you explain that your best pieces have only ever been performed to bathroom tiles, plastic buckets and that sweet innocent Ogbono soup?

I know it was there.

I know it was beautiful.

But by the time I reach for it

all I have left, is the feeling it existed.

So yes, if you've been expecting another piece from me, this is it.