By Anjali Nayak
At the doorstep of Mr. West’s house, I didn’t know what to expect. As a huge fan of his music, I’ve gotten into numerous debates justifying many of his hijinx, usually ending in some shouting match of “Defend the art not the artist!” But finally seeing the man in the flesh, could I continue to uphold his presidential campaign, or spontaneous tweets?
After almost five minutes of waiting outside his house, Kanye finally opens the door and silently greets me inside. In extreme contrast with his social media presence, he seemed calm, almost at peace. As I walked in, he poured me a cup of green tea. Although with a little hesitation, I brought the cup to my lips, and took a sip. Salty.
“MY TEARS,” Ye had somehow read my mind.
I sit down on the intensely psychotic white couch, making notice of the decor of West’s house. Walls were covered with pictures of him, and peeking out of every windowsill was a telescope, perfectly angled to look through the windows of his neighbor living across the street. Kanye sits on a chair right next to me, and I ruffle through my pages of notes and questions.
“Mr. West, how has your day been going?”
“GOOD.”
“I’m glad to hear that, can you tell me something about if there is upcoming music?”
“NO. BUT IT WILL BE ON THE DONDA STEM PLAYER.”
“Why did you decide to stop releasing music to streaming platforms? Won’t less people be able to consume your music?”
“AS AN ARTIST, I FEEL THAT COMPANIES LIKE SPOTIFY AND APPLE MUSIC EXPLOIT THE WORK OF MUSICIANS. WITH MY AUDIENCE, I KNOW THAT I CAN ”
Finally, something I can actually use. I look down at my notebook when I realize that I’ve forgotten what exactly he said.
“Could you possibly repeat that?”
“WHAT??”
“Repeat that?”
“RESKETE THAT?” I roll my eyes. Next question.
“How do you feel abo-,”
“DO YOU KNOW BILLIE EILLISH OR KID CUDI?” Kanye stands up, and starts barging around the room, completely unaware that he had cut me off.
“No Kanye, I do not know either of them personally,” I say apologetically, trying to turn the interview back on course.
Kanye doesn’t believe me. He turns around, trying to keep himself together. Then, as if straight from a horror movie, the first few seconds of a gospel rendition of On Sight plays in the background, slowly building and building. Finally, it reaches a culmination, my eyelids get heavy, but right before I almost fall asleep, I see a ghost of a tall, tattoo covered, pasty looking man. Skete.
Before I can begin to panic, my eyes suddenly close, and my soul is whisked to a new heaven. I can only see a bright light, and suddenly, everything makes more sense. I open my eyes, to find that I am still in West’s house, sitting right where I was before periodically reaching enlightenment.
Almost silently, we make the decision that it’s time for me to leave.
In the wake of Kanye’s supposed “meltdown,” I urge you to take a different approach to Ye’s new attitudes towards life. Although people may laugh and jeer at his outrageously commanding diction as well as his refusal to speak in anything other than caps lock, but you know who else people laughed at? Jesus. We are in the wake of a new prophet. A new religion, a new savior. Yeezus.