If every dream and plan had a vicious toothache that would erupt after enough irritation, this past week would be that fire-in-mouth.

The summation of all the small conflicts, day-to-day niggles, and the heated confrontations that have transpired in the past 2 months all led up to the total implosion of self. Feeling as I’ve lost myself. And realizing I’ve hit a massive wall, the one I never wanted to encounter at any point.

This wall is tall and extends into the sky until the clouds choke it out of sight. It’s dark, painted in red and black swatches of thick bile. I recognize the bile. It’s from me. It’s from deepest inside. When I poke at it as it slithers down the wall, I recognize its contents. My worst fears: that I’ll fail. that I’m not a writer. that I’m actually nothing at all. that I’m doomed to mediocrity, shifting from one jail to another until I pass on.

I look to my right and left and the horizon shares the cloud’s strangulation on the view of the wall. It disappears when you look and all you know is that it’s long.

That I’m not a writer. This become pungent this week. My writing routine evaporated away and I escaped. I escaped until I reached nowhere inside. I grew numb and that bile stood out in sight. You’re not writing. You’re not producing. You’re not doing anything in anything. You’re a fucking disgrace to yourself.

This screaming from one side, the wall in front of me, the silence of the house, fear of failure handcuffing me, I’m trying to come up with all that I saw and experienced. The escape complementing the manacles by confining me to a state of stillness where everything freezes and my only relief is through my dreams.

Brief moments of light came in the auditions I did Wednesday night for Enflesh Films and when I went out with my friend Gareth. I had a great time.

But I did no serious writing this week. Not in film work, not in journalling-blogging, not in freelance writing, not in journalism. Nothing.

Thursday was the day when all the time spent in front of the wall revealed a couple of crucial truths. That the wall hasn’t disappeared above and out of my sight. It’s just engulfed my life. I never knew that I can’t see it when I look up and down and around me, but it’s all around me.

I’m no longer that natural writer. I can’t just sit down and pour out myself in writing. Writing is forced now. When I was in England, I didn’t know this because I never tried to do what I’m doing now in South Africa; I was too busy over there with a full-time job and preoccupations with my vices. But now, at home all day every day, no immediate responsibilities or obligations to attend to, just me and my thoughts, plans, and family.

This experience so far has been a massive vacuum where I can observe my true self without any distractions, a magnifying glass on my every single dream, plan, and ambition. And it’s revealed I’m an atrophied, exhausted artist. My mind has remained active, has developed, has yearned and hungered for the rest of me to actualize what it produces, but the rest of me is tired, it’s out of practice, and I’m pushing it with no mercy.

My fear of failure is fueled by the tirades with my family and the thoughts of going back to England, telling them I’ve settled, I gave up on film and writing. And then as I sense their smug smiles, hearing their veiled words about how it’s OK when actually it’s ‘I told you so’. All that keeps me running away, beating myself to an inch of my life, forcing myself to chase this dream I’m no longer equipped to pursue because all the natural reserves have been siphoned dry.

The wall is my fear of failure and the only way I ever see or bring up my deepest core is through a violent vomit, where everything becomes bare. It’s all me, but it’s masturbated out by circumstance or in defense of myself or because the pressure to be free sometimes can no longer be contained. Always looking at myself, expressed to the world as putrid mess, that belongs inside rather than out, is not how I want to do things anymore.

Like a child, I want things to be OK with my family, I want them to accept and support my work and dream like it should be. And eventhough I pussyfoot in and out of caring about their approval, the solemn truth remains that I’m affected and angered by every one of their jibs or ribs at me about my work. I am annoyed and animated to anger by every small and big thing they pick on. I can lose myself for days, boiling over them and how they can do this or that to me. The day pass on and I achieve nothing.

The boiling can swallow up any joy or positivity like the energy I felt today after meeting a producer for film work. Petty arguments with my father and I had to bury my face into the bed fabric to somehow unleash the flood of frustration.

Then this voice in my head whispered,”All you can control now is how you’ll react to this.” I still was angry at my dad, but the voice made more sense than what would usually happen next.

So, I got up and kept on going. Did things. Not writing. But just did anything else rather than escaping.

I’m going to be more merciful to myself. I’m going to find self-support, self-resolve, self-will in myself and depend on it wholly for this path. During that process, I know I will get annoyed and angry. I know I will probably lose myself or escape.

I just know I want to write again without thinking about it or worrying about it. I’m not going to go out look for too much freelance work in case it brings on the wall.