Madness is doing the same thing over and over again. Like, having a stare-down at the clock, attempting your best Thomas Shelby death stare. Blinking once and hoping that 5 hours will do you the favor of lapsing away to oblivion.

Hope is a dangerous thing but this time, let's just say it lacks the audacity to move a minute hand let alone a molehill. The clock being none the wiser ambles away ever so slowly.

Something about time taking its sweet time activates super powers lying dormant within you. Specifically, the super power of awareness. A quick glance at the ceiling reveals an intricate pattern of wooden strips, whose interconnecting edges fall at regular intervals to form a hyphenated line. On a day like this, you have to admire such immaculate craftsmanship.

What else does this beauty of a bedroom have to offer? Well, a glance sideways this time makes you want to turn sideways. A film of dust has plastered the laptop's monitor, serving almost as a default screen protector.

Then there's the half-eaten apple reposing under the other bed. A position it has occupied for the better part of a month. The spider webs at each of the corners of the underside of that bed not only stimulate your tingle but threaten to unleash another spider-verse altogether.

Your conscience knows the jig is up.

"Cmon broski, this fake-it-till you-make-it can only take you so far," you tell yourself.

Your bedroom is in a desperate need of a glow up. Far from being an embarrassment of riches, it is an embarrassment. Plain and simple.

For the umpteenth time, the low-battery notification pops up. Binging on shorts has depleted your phone's power. This phone has been running on empty for a while. It's been on 1% for almost 20 minutes. You have to admire its resilience.

How you wish that Apple could make longer cables so you wouldn't have to hike to the other side of the room to charge your phone. How hard could that be, Apple? Then it hits you, you can just move the extension cable closer.

Summoning the last reserves of your strength, you rouse yourself up, taking almost a minute to plant one foot on the floor. One foot and not one kiss is all it takes, as you stretch out your hand to pull the cable closer to your bed. Problem solved. Genius. "Sometimes even I surprise myself," you rightfully conclude.

Another of your exceptional capabilities is memory. One that your phone sadly doesn't share. The iPhone keeps inundating with reminders to do something about it. You know the culprit is WhatsApp and those group videos. It would be oh-so simple to just delete them, but the FOMO in you reckons you could be missing out on your AHA moment.

The first video you check is 7 min. A few seconds in and you realize this will be the death of you. You don't have the time. Never mind you have spent the last 77 minutes exclusively on YouTube watching videos. Never mind you have a whole midmorning, lunch, afternoon and evening to yourself.

You know you should continue. You know you could clean up your room. You decide to do something much better.

"That hyphenated line on the ceiling is just glorious."

Dance is a rizz master, capable of sweeping anyone of their feet. Well, except for Curtis. In Curtis, dance met a man who was simply no simp.

Curtis distinguished himself by being extra. A fact so ably exemplified on this particular night. Few noticed as he took to the dance floor, fewer even cared. In moment's time, Curtis captivated them in a way, few ever could.

They are those with awkward co-ordination. They are those who exhaust a singular dance style to the limits of its applicability. They are those who have two left feet. Then there's Curtis, a potent mix of all three.

Where do we even start? His face hadn't yet decided to smile or smolder so it did the next best thing, vacillating between a Clint Eastwood-squint and a Joker-grin. Meanwhile, his flailing arms made a nuisance of themselves billowing in the air like they just didn't care. From afar, one would have easily mistaken him for an inflatable wind-dancer.

Curtis' hips didn't lie, they flat-out protested. Grieved at the quarantine enforced by his torso and legs, they contented themselves with jerking back and forth for the duration of their lock-down.

The rest of his body was a different kind of mutinous. A cursory glance at Curtis let slip an open secret: Not that of a boy in a man's body but a man's body unwilling to comply with the demands exacted by his boyish mind. There's a difference.

Under the pretext of dancing, this smooth criminal violated every ordinance sacred to the dancing community. Worse, he did it with a nonchalance and indifference that thumbed its nose at all things woke.

Curtis careened across the dance floor like he owned the place. The only thing more surprising is that he didn't clatter into anyone. Though anyone in close proximity wouldn't think twice about keeping a safe distance. They were lost for words looking at him, while Curtis was lost in his own world.

Curtis had no sense of discretion, no regard for public validation. He danced, little else mattered. For a club that admitted adults only, such child-like indifference was a sore miss among the many present. It had been muffled, shackled and then killed by the insidious conformity to the expectations of others and the world around them that came with growing up.

This was a man who really killed it. He didn't need alcohol, weed or some prohibited intoxicant to get his juices moving and rid him of insecurities. Insecurity had decided long ago that it wanted nothing to do with him. It really never had a choice.

A people so obsessed with how others perceived them could only watch on in silent envy. Their care-free selves had long since died by their own hand. Curtis' dancing made them yearn to resurrect it again. Indeed, a murder had been committed on the dance floor. One by the Curtis, the other by the revellers present.

Dance is a rizz master, capable of sweeping anyone of their feet. Well, except for Curtis. In Curtis, dance met a man who was simply no simp.

Curtis distinguished himself by being extra. A fact so ably exemplified on this particular night. Few noticed as he took to the dance floor, fewer even cared. In moment's time, Curtis captivated them in a way, few ever could.

They are those with awkward co-ordination. They are those who exhaust a singular dance style to the limits of its applicability. They are those who have two left feet. Then there's Curtis, a potent mix of all three.

Where do we even start? His face hadn't yet decided to smile or smolder so it did the next best thing, vacillating between a Clint Eastwood-squint and a Joker-grin. Meanwhile, his flailing arms made a nuisance of themselves billowing in the air like they just didn't care. From afar, one would have easily mistaken him for an inflatable wind-dancer.

Curtis' hips didn't lie, they flat-out protested. Grieved at the quarantine enforced by his torso and legs, they contented themselves with jerking back and forth for the duration of their lock-down.

The rest of his body was a different kind of mutinous. A cursory glance at Curtis let slip an open secret: Not that of a boy in a man's body but a man's body unwilling to comply with the demands exacted by his boyish mind. There's a difference.

Under the pretext of dancing, this smooth criminal violated every ordinance sacred to the dancing community. Worse, he did it with a nonchalance and indifference that thumbed its nose at all things woke.

Curtis careened across the dance floor like he owned the place. The only thing more surprising is that he didn't clatter into anyone. Though anyone in close proximity wouldn't think twice about keeping a safe distance. They were lost for words looking at him, while Curtis was lost in his own world.

Curtis had no sense of discretion, no regard for public validation. He danced, little else mattered. For a club that admitted adults only, such child-like indifference was a sore miss among the many present. It had been muffled, shackled and then killed by the insidious conformity to the expectations of others and the world around them that came with growing up.

This was a man who really killed it. He didn't need alcohol, weed or some prohibited intoxicant to get his juices moving and rid him of insecurities. Insecurity had decided long ago that it wanted nothing to do with him. It really never had a choice.

A people so obsessed with how others perceived them could only watch on in silent envy. Their care-free selves had long since died by their own hand. Curtis' dancing made them yearn to resurrect it again. Indeed, a murder had been committed on the dance floor. One by the Curtis, the other by the revellers present.

It’s never been about the money. Never has. Never will be. But even I can’t deny how good it feels to have lots of it.

Vindication at last after all those pitches and writing competitions. To think, I could so easily have given it up. Glad I finally took the plunge instead of caving in to the pressure to get a 'real job'.

Almost 20,000 copies sold, not bad for a first novel, huh? No reading culture here, they said. Now I can read like my life depended on it. Amazon, Kobo, I’m coming for you too. Project Gutenberg, I'll never forget you. You’re due a donation from me.

You too, The Gospel Coalition, Desiring God, Gotquestion.org. You didn't think I'd just walk away with your free resources, did you? My tithe won’t just go to my local church, you guys must reap from the nuggets of wisdom you sowed in me.

By the way, my wisdom tooth is a ticking time bomb. An extraction is long overdue, plus a composite filling for my other tooth. Good thing I can now pay for both. Wouldn't want to lose another tooth by deferring a dental procedure like I did the last time.

I will fight tooth and nail to get this back healed. No more Googling for treatment, I'll see a chiropractor if I have to. This time I'll get a full MRI, no need to rely on my insurance. Speaking of insurance, let me pay the outstanding balance of defaulted payments and accrued penalties soonest possible. Then, I’ll pay the monthly premiums for a whole year, in advance. Debt-free here I come.

Promises are also debts. We promised our in-laws a dowry negotiation, they'll get a settlement. Like a certain Mr Toretto, I'm also big on family. Big bro can count on me to chip in with his dowry payment and subsequent wedding costs. Then I'll roast him with my speech at his evening party. Bro doesn't know what's coming.

The house has been crying for a renovation. My folks and I will move to an Airbnb, while the house gets a glow-up. Good bye leaking WC, leaking sink, leaking tank. Hello new tanks, new floor, new cooker. Maybe our house might even become an Airbnb some day.

My dear aunties, do I have the surprise for you. I and my cousins have been on the receiving end of your loving kindness. This time, the roles will be reversed. If only I could see the look on your faces when I send each of you an unexpected monetary gift. Priceless.

Money might be prepossessing, but as a possession, it can be dangerously possessive. Perhaps it's a good thing I write this down so that I can hold myself accountable. They may say talk is cheap, but frittering money merely on perishables is an expensive mistake.

My writing may have blown up, but I'm not about to blow its earnings. I'm open to more of your spending plan, God.

The winds whistled at Jeremy's burning resolve. Notwithstanding, they fanned his lighter's flame to reduce 200 big ones to inconsequential cinders. Parallels with a biblical character were striking. While Jehoiakim burned a scroll prodding his dead conscience, Jeremy burned paper coercing him to sell his.

The autopsy attributed Alan's death to overdosing but the question still remained: who really was the addict? Alan, dead from an overdose? Or Jeremy? Addicted to the green? The guy who made a killing from killing guys like Alan softly. A man filthy rich, in every sense of the word, alive but truly dead inside.

“You have taken my companions and loved ones from me; the darkness is my closest friend.”

Not exactly the kind of sentiment you’d expect to find in the bible. Especially not in a book accustomed to exultations, praises and altogether positive vibes. Psalm 88:18 doesn’t come across as hyperbole to us even if its metaphor of loneliness lives long in the memory.

Loneliness is a feeling we are all too familiar with. It punctures our heart before yanking it out, and tossing it, like any normal Mortal Kombat character would. Far from being the gift that keeps on giving, it is the penalty that keeps on penalizing. Not content with deflating us, it disembowels us to a hollowed-out version of ourselves.

Loneliness may not be as excruciating as physical pain, but it is every bit enfeebling. It sucker punches the life of us, knocking us off our cocksure stride. Not only do we slump to the canvas, we prostrate on it. The sinking feeling that it is, roots us to the spot.

Loneliness is defiance that second-guesses itself. Loneliness is the activist too shy to explode in protest. Caught between a lofty expectation of friendship and a sobering reality of isolation, our muddled-up minds are barely able to conjure up a coherent explanation. How can they? They are stunned into silence.

Most of all, loneliness makes us dejected. Loneliness is a serial killer that drowns our enthusiasm, suffocates our joy, decapitates our attempts to make meaningful connections. Oh loneliness, you are the death of us.