Is This The End?

My career in journalism has really transformed me as a person and a creative, and it has opened my mind and my eyes to the possibilities of the world.

One thing I know about myself is that I’m extremely talented. In the years that I’ve been doing this thing, I have learnt and absorbed so much, though I know my journey is far from over.

I always tell people that I will be a writer until I die. That I can see myself 80 and wrinkly, chuckling to myself in front of a computer screen, squinting to see what I’ve already laid out.

I can see myself searching my brain for the right words to use. I can see myself close to tears recollecting all the beautiful moments, trying hard to paint the right picture with prose.

I don’t ever plan on stopping or giving up on this glorious, nerve-racking skill that haunts me every chance it gets.

I want to write so many stories and movies and documentaries and commentaries. I want to travel, eat, watch, experience and turn it all into something on a page.

That’s the big scheme. If I can somehow trick the universe into giving me a long life as a writer, I will be happy.

How exactly this will all play out though is beyond me. I mean, I write this column and that seems to be going tits up.

I have no idea if I can really rely on this any more to carry me forward or sustain me. It is not a viable option if I want my writing to maintain its value or be respected.

I don’t necessarily do things solely for money, but it plays a huge role in motivating me to get up and meet my deadlines.

I have rent to pay, food to buy, tuition to conjure up, so just being passionate is not enough for me.

Then again, I guess it’s the nature of the industry to be unstable and unpredictable.

I’ve had so many jobs in my short life that I’m actually used to the constant change and ups and downs.

Maybe in the last couple of years I’ve become too comfortable and I should return to the anxiety-riddled years of not knowing where my next rental payment would come from.

Oh Lord. I’m getting flashbacks to failed yard sales, the feeble attempts at entrepreneurship and the genuine uncertainty.

I’m not too sure how I feel about it, but I’m experiencing this weird drowning sensation that I can’t shake. It’s like my lungs are filling with water and I’m gasping and I’m trying to scream for help but the words just get lost in my throat.

I’m not even sure what I’m saying anymore. I need a moment.

Goodbye.

– Anne Hambuda is a poet, writer and social commentator from Windhoek. Follow her online or email her at annehambuda@gmail.com for more.

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