Until Then…

Ahhhhhhhhh…

This is relaxing. I have finally successfully plied myself from the couch and drudged upstairs to my room to share my thoughts.

Life is kinda nice right now. I seem to be a good fit for my position at work. I am allowed to use my creativity to the fullest to motivate my team and I’m loving every minute of it.

I push myself to the limit at my job, rarely taking a break because I know that I am intelligent. I know that I can help create a more smooth working atmosphere where the writers are constantly sharpening their craft.

Writing is not just a hobby to me. It’s a lifestyle. It’s a heartbeat. Words to me mean just as much as that CD collection you hold so dear. And it pisses me off when I read garbage writing. How dare you make fun of my craft? Who the hell gave you a book deal?

I spent the afternoon at the Lennox Mall just browsing. I rarely do that because I feel like it’s torture when you see so much and you can’t buy any of it. But I went anyway all by myself just because I wanted to see what it was all about.

It’s a regular mall, but these aren’t regular people. There’s one thing that saddens me as I venture out and about in Atlanta. A few years ago, my first love and good friend Bernard called me up to tell me he had just visited Atlanta for the first time.

“Tee,” he breathed heavily into the phone as though he had just finished a marathon. “Every girl up there looks like you.”

“Wow.” I responded, recognizing the seriousness of the statement. Bernard happens to think I am beautiful. I trust his judgement. ~wink~

Lo and Behold, Behold and Lo, he was absolutely right. The women here are vibrant looking and very precise. I don’t stand out anymore. There are so many beautiful black people in Atlanta that you can literally have a feast with leftovers if you parked outside of any major church in the area on Sunday. Georgeous Black men and women who care about how they present themselves so much so that is is the norm to see every carwash completely full and every salon filled to the brim with women getting their style on.

Maybe it’s the circles that I travel in but I’ve only seen one woman with weave in her hair and her shit was bangin! It had her name shaved into the side. It was wild.

Every other woman is sporting natural hair. Did you hear what I said? SPORTING NATURAL HAIR! And I’m not talking about my buzz cut or even an afro. These chicks have long flowing hair that reaches their backs and they are BLACK women and they don’t have perms or weaves.

What a thought!

They get their hair pressed every week. It looks just like the ladies on the perm boxes. I was blown away by that.

I was always baldheaded ever since I can remember. I never had that ponytail that sticks out of the back of a baseball cap. I always wanted one.

What else is going on?

Awww….Ya’ll won’t believe this.

I’m in love.

With his words.

I’ve always known that words were sexy and tintillating and delicious, but until I was able to MEET other writers and see how their personalities are reflected in their writing, damn—writing has now gone x-rated!

There’s this man at my job. I’ve mentioned him before, I’ll call him Cancer. True, dude’s writing is in need of a little more development, but the rawness of his writing is intoxicating. His personality shines through in every sentence. He writes to a ryhthm I find intriguing. Kinda like he’s tap dancing while he’s flowing. And when you see him walk up and down the office with this grand bravado, laughing at his own jokes, calling himself sexy and brilliant, all I can do is—-

sigh…

I love creative people.

I’ll call him up while he’s in the airport on the way back to Atlanta and ask him to write a feature story about cars by the time he gets back. He pauses and thinks a minute. “Ok, it’s gonna be called, ‘Is That A Saturn?’ Make sure you add the question mark. I have a great idea for the feature.”

And by the time he reaches ground the story is already done.

Amazing.

Amazing.

A man who can communicate through the written word is so ~shakes~ to me.

And that’s why I was so hurt when I heard that my baby Kanye was engaged. The day I got the email from a concerned friend, I got up from my desk, walked slowly into the bathroom and leaned against the wall and cried.

I did.

And that’s when I realized how much his words had affected me. I had fallen in love with him simply because he spoke to me on a level that music had never taken me to before. I felt like his lyrics demonstrated what a lover of language could do with a string of words laced poetically through a melody.

As the days went by I felt better. Pictures of him and Alexis began popping up all over the internet. I took a long look at her and decided that I only want what’s best for him. She’s aiight.

Coincidently, I came across his CD. The same Late Registration CD I was bumping when I made the trip up here for the first time. I popped it in one morning and our love affair was rekindled right then.

I considered that, maybe Kanye wasn’t meant to ever be my lover or my husband.

Wow.

Did I just say that?

He’s everything you could ever ask for in a man. He’s creative, innovative, fearless, driven, talented, successful and…and……he’s a lover of words unlike any other in my age group.

But he’s taken.

I’ll just sit back and allow his lyrics to massage me to sleep. Maybe one day soon, someone else will come along who oozes the same intensity and charisma from his fingertips. And maybe he’ll read my work and feel the same way about me.

And maybe we’ll make lots of little booklets together.

Until then…I’m always writing.