Welcome to The Imperfect Writer.

I don’t usually start my pieces like this, but stay with me for a second. There’s a version of this that probably opens in the rolling hills of Ssembabule. Cinematic. Soft lighting. A calm voice whispering my name, “Derick.” I could paint the sunrise spilling across the fields, the wind teasing at my shirt, the kind of scene that makes you feel like life owes you a story. But that’s just boringggggg. And it’s not me. You see, when something is real to me, I don’t narrate it.

Hey, Stranger. How are you doing? Okay, I guess. I keep starting that way because it sounds polite, because it sounds like someone who still remembers how conversations are supposed to go. Truth is, I’m not alright. I haven’t been for a while, and pretending otherwise has started to feel like a secret I didn’t sign up for. Lately, my mind refuses to stay in one place. It wanders far away from here, away from this town and its familiar dust, away from the routines that overwhe

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“The Gregorian calendar divulges a Sunday, time? The ‘culprit’ hardly reminiscences but it had to be dark I contemplate, my skin-tone...