The books that the world calls immoral are books that show the world its own shame.
I’m k. Kamilah to some. Godlovesugly_k to the rest. Bitch to many, probably.
I am a rebel without a cause who likes to sleep at 10pm. I like instructions and I hate being told what to do. I am opinionated and apathetic. I am cynical and a hopeless romantic. I have trouble censoring my thoughts.
I write, I read, but mostly, I think about writing and reading. I think; sometimes I do. I might not write for weeks and then suddenly produce ten ostensibly different thousand-word pieces over the weekend.
I am incredibly online, so I am constantly aware of what the cool kids are thinking. I am therefore always irritable, and I have become the angry elderly neighbour waving a cane around. If you follow me on social media, you’ll know this. At first, this blog started out as a nice, happy-go-lucky page where I’d post sunny poetry and product reviews; since then, I’ve grown up. I don’t review things anymore because you’ll find an abundance of people who will do that for you, and I don’t need to encourage more consumerism. Nor do I have the time to. I’m more interested in digging into the mind and understanding my own before I tell you whether or not you should buy that new mascara.
I criticise most things, and find beauty in the ability to do so. I have some unpopular opinions and have been known to dabble in controversy, but I’ve never been one to suppress a thought that stands out from the rest.
Coursing through childhood and my teenage years, I found a friend that would stay with me for good: crippling anxiety. Cliché, I know, the writer with a broken brain. The pen found me before adolescence; I’d always been a quiet kid who never really spoke up. I just sat there, seething, a face like thunder. Passive aggression became my thing, and I have since perfected it. I had nowhere to put that volatile energy bubbling up inside me, so I started to write. I wrote stories, I wrote poetry, and I wrote things that scared the other kids away. I learnt about mental illness much too early, and I learnt about love much too late. But you’ll find a lot of my writing is tinged with either or both. A love for life, a love for love. A love for misery.
Writing is one of those things that you can’t sit there and schedule; you must strike whilst the iron’s hot, so I don’t know how regularly I’ll post. The only thing I can guarantee is this: you will either love my writing, or you’ll hate it to bastard death.
Maybe you’ll hate that you love it, and it’ll be your guilty pleasure.
Let me know. Or don’t. As long as you’re reading.
Disclaimer: Any thoughts/opinions I express on this blog may be strong, however they are my own and not a reflection of anything or anyone you may find linked to me. Nor are they to be generalised and attributed to all people of my gender/race/religion etc. Don’t be dumb.
My work is subject to copyright.