The ceiling fan theory

It's been two weeks.

I didn't write because I couldn't find time to. Or it seemed like I couldn't find time to.

Starting up again reminded me of a time, few years back.

It was a story of a friend of mine. For the purposes of this story, we'll call him Folarin.

Folarin was a pretty interesting guy. We were in a trio, and when he was 13, he told us that he'd given his life to Christ. For someone like me, it wasn't shocking to hear that. I practically grew in the church.

For the next few months, Folarin would go on to be really serious with this thing. It was enviable. Like anything, it's not the faith itself but the conviction of its practitioners that converts others.

No! I wasn't converted. Let's get back to the story.

Few years in, Folarin began to get curious.

You see, I probably had a part to play in that curiosity. Because of Folarin's new life, he couldn't join us in certain conversations anymore. But he was a brilliant and incredibly curious dude.

Whenever he slipped [and joined] us, he'd get home and cry himself to forgiveness.

Then he'll come back determined not to do it again and then the cycle began. Slowly, the time gaps for asking for forgiveness gradually increased until he didn't bother asking.

We were not so bothered about it. We could now talk without having to censor our words. At this point, Folarin had drunk his first cocktail, taken his first shot of Vodka, gone to his first party, smoked his first blunt, gotten drunk and would go on to do what my parents would call "obscene things".

Yes, he explored his curiosity. And we loved it! He was making progress—to us.

Few months in, we'd catch Folarin staring into space. In my 7 years of being friends with him, he stares into space for three things. One, he's playing out a particularly fantasy. Two, he's drunk. Three, he's in regret.

Folarin is almost borderline asexual and the few times I caught him staring, he was definitely not drunk. My guy was in regret.

It didn't take long to affirm my suspicions. He started reading his bible again. He'd try to go to church too. He wanted to catch up. He wanted to, and I say this in his words, "be as fervent as he used to be". But somehow, he'd do that for a few days, and be back to ground zero.

He did this over and over and over again, until he just got tired.

Yeah, tired.

I guess it's what I'm scared of—getting tired of writing to you. I must tell you, I have felt like writing a goodbye letter. I have found excuses to not write anymore.

Yesterday, I scrolled through the people who unsubscribed trying to justify why they did it. It was a mess not recognising the 524 people who receive my letter and the 160+ people who read it.

And even though Folarin is a fictional character, I remember something I once told my mum about starting over. I said:

"When people stop, they stop gradually. It's like a ceiling fan. When the electricity is gone, it doesn't stop once. It keeps rolling, continuing on the momentum it had—the residue. And if electricity doesn't come back soon. It stops."

"But when electricity comes back, it doesn't leap up to top speed. It starts slow and gradually works its way up. And in no time, it's at top speed."

That's the lesson I'm taking into the new week. Start slow because at the beginning all that matters is that you started.

And those who start don't get tired.

It's nice to write to you again, Praise. And I'll be writing again to you today — 4 PM sharp.

Ciao.

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