Sometimes, I wonder if I am the only one who remembers some things. Like does this girl and her horde of brothers remember pushing me down to the ground just outside my house in lower primary?
Does this teacher remember calling me out of class after an essay writing test and telling me that my writing was exemplary and that they believed in me?
Does the judge of my first ever public speaking competition remember this shocked girl in brown uniform who stumbled on her first words then went on to give a brilliant speech on the important of free primary education and took second place?
Does the person I sat with in kindergarten remember the sickly girl next to her who was always lying down on the benches every now and then, after severe nose bleeds?
Do my classmates remember that time in grade seven or eight when we decided to plant flowers outside the class and sort of turned it into a competition with the next class ? I must say my class won.
Do the reporters remember my first tv interview? That’s an embarrassing but cute memory in its own way. It was immediately after KCPE. I always want to crawl into a hole every time I see it. I envy my younger self for the confidence though, whether fake or real.
Does my highschool principal remember me asking to stay behind for a few days after schools closed in my first year? Thats a story for another day.
Do the first people I met on the first of high school remember ? We all looked so new in the green uniforms and pin straight blow-dried hair. Like freshly minted notes straight from the bank. Hahaha. The first people I met were actually two girls in my class. Did we go on to become friends? Yes and no. One remained more of an acquaintance. One was a spectacular fail of a friendship. No name dropping for privacy purposes.
Does the cook remember I always used to say ‘kidogo’ while being served because I am not much of an eater and I didn’t want to waste food? Sometimes they’d disregarded my request. Did I look like I was starving? I don’t know .
I made alot of acquaintances in my time at highschool. Friends even, if I say so myself. Workers, a teacher or two, kids from the staff quarters. There’s this kid I gave the last thing I ever painted. It was a beautiful sunset over the sea and a lone boat. He wanted something and I was leaving.
Sarah from the tuckshop gave me a treat on her bill because she thought I looked sad. Oh that kind soul…
I wonder does the nurse remember me? I was pretty sickly. There’s this time I had to go and stick around the sanatorium daily for IV injections because I refused to be admitted to the hospital. Another time I fell and a pebble got into my knee. As if that wasn’t enough, the disinfectant burnt the skin so it became a bigger wound. If you have never had your skin peeled off, literally, don’t be in a hurry to find out.
I wonder does my english group remember how we would discuss for a few minutes then everyone would start napping one way or another. Does my chemistry teacher remember me demandingly that he stops picking on me? That was funny . Being bullied by an adult and having your peers laugh at you, especially in a classroom isn’t funny though. My English teacher was my favorite. She always had stories to tell. And I like the way she always used to say ‘nobody died’. In some way, it made everything seem a tiny bit easier. Moving on swiftly… (Another favorite phrase of hers)
There’s so much to reminisce about.
Do people who were once my friends keep the cards and notes I made for them?
Does the little black kitten my mom gave away remember me?
Do my first workmates remember me?
Does my first love remember my naivety?
Where did this kid who was my friend when I was in grade 8 and he was in grade 2 go? Has the world taken away his innocence and pureness of heart? Is he still curious about the world?Does he still catch grasshoppers only to feed them and let it go?
Do the ladies I used to share novels with in highschool remember? Having a book no one had read was like winning a lottery.
I feel like my life is made up of these little not so significant memories that everyone seems to have forgotten. Everyone but me. In all honesty though, I’d prefer to be forgotten. I don’t make it hard to either.
I want to write. I’ve been thinking how to start for a while now. I don’t know how to, and it’s driving me crazy. I hate it.
There’s so much I want to say. But my mind is blank. Yet words are chocking me. Beating against my rib cage. Clawing my chest. Asking, demanding to be let out. I hate it.
It’s so funny, isn’t it. How laughter gives way to tears. To anguish. To so much misery and anger, and pain, and helplessness. So funny, how you wake up one morning and everything you knew is gone. You’re surrounded by gray walls, gray skies, gray faces. You are a stranger to yourself too. I hate it.
Isn’t it funny, how you could be obsessed with a goal today,a person, a topic, an event then wake up the next day with absolutely no inkling or hint of desire towards the same thing? I find it partly scary and intriguing, how fast the flames of desire can turn cold. How fast burning passion abates. How a raging storm of obsession suddenly gives way to calm seas of indiferrence . How fast a radiant heart turns cold.
The world has a way of sucking the joy out of everything. It’s designed to try, to test. And more often than not we’re found wanting. Unworthy. Oh, how sad, how devastating, how heartbreaking, it is for a young generation to be so faded, so jaded. Utterly lost. Broken. It is better to die young. With dreams. Hopes. Aspirations. Than to be old and jaded praying for death every night.
We’re stuck on a vicious cycle of self destruction. Get high till you don’t remember your name. Surround yourself with people who you wouldn’t think of calling at 3am when you’re having a mental breakdown and call them friends. Try to fill the hollow inside with everything superficial, try to pretend that it’s not there. If we maybe pretend it doesn’t exist hard enough, it will go away.
Write us a romantic tragedy, my friend says. Write us the saddest story ever. There are no happily ever afters left in the world. Happiness is an illusion. Its a fool’s dream. Its a lie.
Pain. We crave pain like an addict craves his fix. Its what we know. It’s what we are used to. We’re hurting so we’re angry with the world. We’re hurting so we hurt everyone around us. I don’t know how to not be sad anymore. I can’t even remember how it was like not being sad. I feel like it is the only thing I ever was. Sad.
Time heals nothing. We just grow around our grief. Build bigger and stronger walls. To keep all the pain inside. And warmth outside. Walls so strong, yet so fragile, that the slightest show of concern is enough to bring them crashing down. So we wield our tongues like double edged swords. We lash out like wounded animals. Caged animals. Agitated. And we build a fortress of sarcasm and cynicism, and skeptism. To keep all the warmth and light outside. We found a home in the cold, in the dark.
What is the philosophy of our generation? Is it misery? Depression? Is it intolerance, judgment and discrimination? Is it so much pent up anger and madness that the day we burst we will raze down the whole world? Is it coldness, indifference, apathy that we’re always plunged in sub-zero temperatures? Is it running away from everyone, everything, our problems? Hiding from facts and the truth? Refusing to see things as they really are because we will never be ready? The 18s and 19s were the eras of enlightenment and romanticism. What is the philosophy of our generation?
We’re a restless people. Always feeling like we don’t belong. Always running. We never stick around too long. Because we’re afraid. Afraid our past is going to catch up with us. Afraid that our demons are going to catch up with us. We crave freedom like caged eagles. But caged eagles we are. Caged by our emotions, our past, our dreams, our future.
Smiles uglier than crying. Self loathing. So many what ifs and whys at 3am when the world slumbers and the moon shines light on our deepest wounds. When old scars itch, asking to be scratched, to be ripped open, again, to fester.
You apologize too much. I do, too. I am sorry. I am sorry. I am sorry for everything I was, is, and everything I wasn’t, isn’t. I am sorry that I was hurting and hurt you too. I am sorry for everything that I could have fixed and did not. We are a generation too proud to admit our mistakes and apologize. We’re willing to lose what we care about, than lower our pride and ego. Pathetic.
We have loved in vain. Trusted in vain. Laboured in vain. Waited in vain. Toiled in vain. Hoped in vain. Everything has been for naught. We have not only failed to gain the world, but we have lost ourselves too.
I don’t think this is what I want to write. I am not so sure I didn’t go off topic from the word go. I am not so sure I didn’t run away.
Oh love, you smell like heartbreak and a field of broken promises and shattered dreams. Come, let me give you a hug.
November is Men’s Health Awareness Month with International Men’s Day falling on November 19th. Men’s Health Awareness Month is dedicated to bringing awareness to a wide range of men’s health issues.
I guess blank September is becoming sort of a recurring theme for me. September is the month after my birthday month. And trust me, I have had few things to be happy about in August since birth. I probably have had more losses in August than any other time of the year. Or maybe the fact that the month is associated with that day makes them stand out more because I am unlikely to forget. In as much as I want to.
I usually find myself lost in September, and this year is no different. I feel stuck, like I am sinking in quicksand no matter how much I try to stay afloat.
I feel lost. Like a tiny canoe in the midst of a tsunami, bloodthirsty waves, hungry sharks, a cold, dark ocean waiting to swallow me.
I feel like I am walking on a tight rope. One wrong step and the abyss will joyfully swallow me.
I feel like I am constantly at war. Fighting myself, fighting other people, fighting the whole world itself. And my soul grows weary of the constant breaches to my peace.
My physical health has been shitty, which has taken a dip at my mental health too. I am getting migraines as often as I get into a bad mood. Which is too often, if you ask me. I am off meds, not that they did more than mess me up further, but it was something to hold on to. I try not to wear the frustration and pain on my face but some days the façade cracks. And I hate looking weak.
I am having uncomfortable conversations with myself. Every time I feel myself slip further and further from reality. I am trying to glue the pieces of my life together. I am trying to be strong. I am trying to be kind to myself. I am trying. Hard. It’s taking everything in me.
On days I think I am doing okay, a mere song will push me into a mental breakdown. A stray thought will trigger a panic and anxiety attack. The voices in my head will tell me that all my efforts are for naught.
I am trying to stay anchored in the present. Although I feel myself slipping further every day. I find myself running away from friends. From myself. Running, running. Illusion and reality, the line between illusion and reality is so blurred. I don’t know where I am holding on to anymore. The hold is slippery and the safety belts are worn out. All it takes is one wrong step, one wrong move, one second lapse of concentration….
I am convincing myself it’s okay to feel like this. It’s okay to write this down, and put myself out here…
Aut vincere, aut mors ! Either victory or death.
September has been mental health awareness and suicide prevention month.
He was a mix of a German shepherd and a breed I don’t know. He was special. White paws, socks, I like to call them, because of the way the white patch came just below his knee joints, brown fur with another white patch at the tip of his tail. I called him Simba (Lion), and fierce he was…
He was the only one who listened to me. We’d sit on the verandah and watch the sunset as I complained to him about anything and everything under the sun.
He knew to come running to welcome me no matter how long I was away, with cries of being wronged, smiles, wagging tail and zoomies. It was always the best part about coming back. He was my best friend.
He trusted me, like I did. He let me touch him when nobody else could come near him. He even learnt to share me with my cat for me. Then they slowly became best friends. He knew to place his paw on my hand when I offered it and offer himself for belly rubs, pats and scratches.
He always ate from my plate. I’ve always had a love hate relationship with food, so alot of the times I’d empty my plate in his bowl as he did the eating for me. I’d sneak treats before and past his feeding time because he was the first thing to cross my mind whenever I had a treat. I loved him too much to quantify it in words.
He was a proud dog. Sometimes ignoring calls by others. Yet he knew to come any time I called him. With a wagging tail and patience. And smiles. He could smile, I swear. And perked ears. Eager.
I remember the first day he came. He was so small. I was scared he wouldn’t make it through the first night. I bottle fed him and wrapped him up in a thick cloth. He made it.
I would check on him in the morning before I went to school and rush back in the evening to see if he was okay and well fed. Then I’d bring him around to play in the compound. He went from whimpering at night to running circles with me around the house every evening.
Too fierce, that was Simba. Too fierce that nobody dared trespass. Or show up without asking to be fetched for fear of being bitten. He would sit on the lawn close to the gate, basking in the sun or on our spot on the verandah waiting for a hapless soul to scare. He had fun with it, and so did I honestly.
I remember this day, I don’t know what some kid said, whether to him or to me. Probably a rude comment from what I can remember. Simba took it upon himself to make sure the kid lived to regret that. He barked so aggressively and chased the kid around while snapping at his heels much to my mother’s consternation. Meanwhile I was on the floor dying with laughter as my mother screamed at me to make him stop. I wasn’t worried he’d bite the kid because he was too intelligent. But I had to call him back, of course after the lesson was over, lest my mother decided to lock him up.
He was such a stubborn dog, that I became his appointed vet. Hell would have to freeze over first before he followed anyone, willingly or unwillingly to the vet. That dog could run! And he always knew, so we stopped trying. And I’d coax him to take any meds or do his check ups as necessary.
As he aged, he lost a couple of teeth, and required a softer diet. I saw it truly for the first time in 2020 when covid lock down forced everyone to stay at home. And it broke me. Time flies so fast and I wished it didn’t.
I am thankful for the time I got to spend with him during that period. There wasn’t alot to do and he was a welcome distraction from the madness all that staying cooped in one place was bringing me. We played, and talked, I fed him, watched as he got closer and closer with the cat. He was also less naughty. It’s like he knew he was leaving.
I saw it too, and I stubbornly refused to believe it. Until one day in the morning I called him for breakfast and he didn’t come. I had stayed up late with him the previous night, just watching the moon and making random small talk. My heart stopped and I rushed to the kennel. He was sleeping so peacefully and I was afraid of waking him up to find out that he wouldn’t wake up anymore.
I stayed there for a long time, waiting for him to open his eyes again and perk his ears. Only this time round, he didn’t. I asked to bury him alone, the same day. I dug a sizeable pit, carefully placed him inside and sat next to it, mourning my best friend. It took me forever to cover the pit because I knew doing that would mean saying goodbye forever. I wasn’t ready. I will never be ready.
I have known loss, intimately like a lover, but that kind of pain was different. Is different. I still hear him barking excitedly across the lawn welcoming me to the place he made me call home. My heart still constricts oh so painfully even now as I write this.
I wish he’d stayed longer. I wish I had been home more. I wish I had taken more pictures, spent more time together. There’s so much. But I am also grateful that he had been there for 10 years of my life. A decade of friendship, memories, fun, laughter.
I hope to never love another as much. Because the pain never goes away.
Today I pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson FRS (6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892) was an English poet. He was the Poet Laureate during much of Queen Victoria’s reign. In 1829, Tennyson was awarded the Chancellor’s Gold Medal at Cambridge for one of his first pieces, “Timbuktu”. He published his first solo collection of poems, Poems, Chiefly Lyrical, in 1830. “Claribel” and “Mariana”, which remain some of Tennyson’s most celebrated poems, were included in this volume. Although described by some critics as overly sentimental, his verse soon proved popular and brought Tennyson to the attention of well-known writers of the day, including Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Tennyson’s early poetry, with its medievalism and powerful visual imagery, was a major influence on the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. [Soure : Wikipedia]
One of my favorites from Lord Tennyson is ‘Crossing the bar’ which is widely considered his last poem. It was written during a spell of sickness during a voyage in his twilight years. Another favorite is ‘In Memoriam A.H.H’ written to commemorate his friend and fellow poet Arthur Hallam who died of a stroke at the tender age of 22.
Lord Tennyson is the ninth most frequently quoted writer in The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations.
Crossing The Bar
Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
I didn’t have to wake up early and go to work. And it wasn’t too cold either. I was up by 5am of course. Out of habit. But I didn’t have to get out of bed. So I stayed in bed and made a new playlist while listening to an old one from Spotify. Miraculously my server connection was very stable. So it was a relaxing exercise.
After that I played the new playlist in the background while I picked up on a book I had been previously reading. I read for almost two hours and then took a break. I played a couple of rounds of Candy Crush Saga until I was out of lives. I had been stuck on level 538 for some time, but I managed to get past that and complete a few more levels.
I used to play Candy Crush and word puzzle games religiously on a nightly basis a couple of months ago. It was a nice way of unwinding after a long day and something to look forward to. Then life got busy. I hadn’t realized how busy until yesterday.
At around 9am I finally got out of bed. The sun was fully up and it was warmer. I decided to take a short walk to see the farm. I came across some trees we planted late in 2020. You know, that Covid lock down period where everyone was around. We had planted up to 50 trees but unfortunately many never made it past the year and the next one when everyone left again . Abandonment issues I guess. I counted, only twenty three survived.
I remember how we had dug pits for them, filled them with suppliments and fertilizers before planting. And the subsequent care. When there was running water, we connected several pipes and watered them individually and when running water wasn’t available we would carry watering cans and make sure every single plant was well watered. I can honestly say that we did our best for the trees. It’s a pity life doesn’t work that way. Sometimes, effort isn’t directly proportional to results. I wasn’t mad though, it could be worse. All of them could have died. I was grateful for the ones that are still growing. It is, and will be a beautiful reminder of time spent together.
Talking of trees, there’s this tree. I wish I had taken a picture of it. It is an avocado tree. It has been there even before I was born. And it is very productive. It is almost always in season. Bearing quite a number of avocados. The problem is that nobody likes it. Not even a single person. Because it’s fruit is fibrous. Honestly, it’s not so bad. I have tried it. But I wouldn’t go out of my way to have it either. It’s bearable. But the existence of 5 other varieties of avocado trees doesn’t help its plight.
Once upon a time, it was a big and leafy tree. But due to the general dislike and existence of other options, it was pruned constantly. Without a shred of sympathy. Any attempt at further growth was nipped in the bud. Literally. At some point it was totally cut down to almost ground level. Of course it grew again. And bore fruit. In the dozens. Many dozens. And it was pruned again. Then it grew again. It was, is, almost like a game.
Now only a single, lonely and proud stem stands, joined by countable branches. Branches bent from the weight of hanging fruits. In their dozens. The bark is withered and almost falling off. But the tenacity of this tree astounds me. It is still constantly pruned. And its fruit goes back to the earth to provide nutrients for the next generation. Because no one picks it.
I could tell you about tenacity and perseverance from the story of that poor tree . But I won’t. My only advice is, don’t grow where you are not wanted. You will suffer, just like this tree, and nobody will appreciate you. Learn when to hold on, and when to let go.
My last stop was at two twin mango trees. The story of these trees is actually funny. They were planted along time ago. They refused to grow and everyone was sure that the seeds probably rotted and became part of the soil. Then suddenly after one rainy season years later, there was two saplings. Everyone was shocked. We decided to let them take their time. And boy, didn’t they! More than five years later, they are inches shorter than me and still taking their time grow! Sigh, let’s give them a couple of decades I guess.
After my walk I picked a ripe pawpaw from one of the trees and brought it back to make a smoothie. The rest of the day was largely uneventful and spent lazing around. I chose to not do my laundry so that I would have more time to myself. Or rather so that I could be lazy in peace. Haha, sue me. It was a much needed break though, because life has been moving way too fast. I don’t expect I will have the same opportunity again any time soon, but I am satisfied with the chance I had, and took.
Life stops for no one. With or without me and you, the earth will still revolve around the sun and life will move on. Don’t drive yourself to a coma trying to stay on top of things. It’s okay to take a break sometimes. Take a breath, relax. Life’s too demanding anyway. Don’t make it more miserable than it is.
Chatty is used to describe one who is very talkative. For example, I would say, I am feeling quite chatty to mean that I am in a talkative mood. So, what would do you use when you’re in the mood for writing? Writty? Is it okay to say that I am in a writyy mood? I can sense ancestors of grammar turning in their graves, haha.
So, I asked my good friend Google what he thought. But instead of giving me a clear answer, he gave me a couple of suggestions. That’s just typical of my friend Google, I have gotten used to it. Among the suggestions was a particularly interesting one from Quora.
The question asked was what do you call someone who loves writing. Among the answers was : imaginary. Haha, yes, imaginary. Of course I was curious as to what form of the word imaginary would be used to describe a writer so I went to my offline dictionary to check. Nothing. My friend Google also gave me the same results. Nothing.
See, since I was born, I have always questioned my whole existence. I felt like I existed between reality and illusion. Who knew I was a figment of someone’s imagination!! I am imaginary! Ever since I found out that a few minutes ago, I feel like a fog has been cleared from my mind. My eyes are suddenly opened. I have found meaning in life again. I have discovered the purpose of my life!
I still can’t believe it! To all my imaginary friends, this is the truth we have been chasing all our lives! This is the truth, this is the Dao. Don’t spend sleepless nights anymore. Don’t wander like lost sheep anymore. We have found our path.
WE ARE IMAGINARIES! WE WON’T BE SHAKEN, AND OUR INK SHALL NEVER RUN DRY! OUR BOOKS SHALL NEVER RUN OUT OF PAGES AND WE SHALL NEVER RUN OUT OF WORDS. GO IMAGINARIES!
So the other day, someone asked me, what kind of writer are you? Guess what I did instead of answering. No, just guess.
I laugh alot. People mistake, confuse, relate, and equate laughing to happiness. Bunch of foolish people. They’re the farthest things from each other, rest assured . Sometimes I laugh because my life is a joke. Sometimes it’s because of the never ending reel of self-deprecating jokes playing at the back of my mind. Sometimes it’s because I am just insane. Sometimes it’s because I want to cry but can not. Sometimes I am reading. And other times I am just in awe of my mortal insignificance in the grand wheel of existence. What’s that got to do with happiness?! Nothing.
So what kind of writer am I? I am.. No. I don’t like to put definites to anything. Because the only constant thing about me is my love for music. Some days I am not even myself. And other times the idea of writing repulses me. I think I might be more of a sentimental writer though. I said might. Don’t look at me like that. Sometimes it’s sarcasm and dark humor. Sometimes it’s lofty ambitions and fantasy. Other times it’s petty, or heavy sentiments. I can never tell when I am playing or when I mean it. Neither can you. Unless you think you know me. But how can you know me when I am a stranger to myself on most days? That’s how it is. Everything is relative. Nothing is definite.
I don’t even know what I am talking about today. It’s one of those days. Lol.
I have an old post to share though. There’s that. And a blog site to recommend to anyone who has a sense of humor. I think that’s enough for today, right? Also, I think I will be late for work today. But the bed is so warm, and it’s so cold outside. I don’t want to leave. It might create trust issues between me and my bed. That’s what Gottfried would say. That’s the owner of the site I’ll be recommending in a while. Relax, in a while.
I hope my boss will never come across this. I am a diligent and punctual worker. Don’t argue with me.
I am rambling alot, aren’t I? Haha. Yes, but do keep me company. Ouch! Who threw a stone? Rude. Here’s the post in any case,, no need for violence. Unless I am the aggressor, of course.
Physical wounds, and pain is easy. Relatively so. You can distract yourself, do targeted exercise, take pain killers, sedatives, you can wash it, band-aid it, bandage it, use a hot or cold compress, amputate parts. There’s so much you could do?
But what about mental pain? What about mental scars? What about emotional scars? What can you do when your mind is your biggest enemy? What can you do when your subconscious repeatedly tortures you with the cruelest of memories, endless misery and anguish? What can you do when your sleep is plagued with nightmares and the ghosts of your past?
What can you do when your brain is stuck to the most painful moments of your life on repeat? What can you do when misery and agony clutch at your heart and threaten to squeeze the life out of you? What can you do when despair cloaks you and follows you around like a shadow? When your very existence is fraught with the longing for death? What can you do when it’s your heart you can’t trust? When you’re your biggest enemy? What can you do when every morning you wake up you sigh in helplessness, dreading the next minute?
How do you collect the broken pieces of your heart and try to put them back together? How do you get out of the prison of your making in your mind? How do you let go of the bitterness, the hatred, the self loathing? How do you stop hurting when you can’t see where it’s hurting? How do you stop feeling?
How do you stop this nameless, all consuming pain that never ends?
Blue. 31st May 2022. 21:55pm
Image sources : Google.
Now let me go copy the link for Banter Republic. Another stone. Ah, how impatient. Should I use these stones to build foundation? A new foundation formula for my non existent make-up brand. Haha. I don’t know if that’s the foundation they meant.
https://banterrepublic.blog. I promise this blog will instantly brighten your day. And your face too, maybe. If you read it over coffee it might even cure your premature balding. Why don’t you go and give it a try?
So today, (Tuesday, July 12th 2022), I had a really rough time. I’ve spent a large part of the day pretty much mad, pissed and all those negative emotions. Why, you ask? Well, don’t get me started.
Anyway, owing to my dark moods, I got a really horrible migraine and low blood pressure? Riddle me that. I thought it’s supposed to shoot up when you’re angry??! 😂😂, anyway, yes. I am sure it’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. So of course, I had to leave work early, which I did. Heaven knows I was a ticking time bomb. With a magnitude 10/10 migraine. I think people who get them understand the kind of madness that pain can drive you into.
I got home and took my meds straight away. Not that that made anything better. But in any case it’s the act that matters. Or is that not what they say? I also took sleeping pills, three hours later, here I am, wide awake, writing about this horrible day. Again, it’s the act that matters. Haha. I think.
So to pass away these miserable hours of painful existence, I took an old notebook and started going through it. I do that alot, going through my old notebooks. It’s like a ticket back to the past. A trip down memory lane. I love going through all the crazy things I wrote in moments of anger, madness, happiness, despair or the random things I drew. It makes me content. Relatively.
So here are a few gems I found, in black and white, just because.
EDIT : So my server was down yesterday and couldn’t upload the images. In between that frustration and my second dose of sleeping pills, I drifted off to a very restless sleep. Half unconscious, half conscious. So today, my blood pressure is back to the normal range, thankfully. And the pain from my migraines is still persistent, but I am sure it’ll be okay within the next 48-72hrs.
He was tall, Not too tall, but tall enough to shield me from the scorching sun and the biting winds.
He was strong, Not too strong, but strong enough that I always believed that if the sky fell he would hold it up for me.
He was dark, Not too dark, but dark enough that the beauty of a thousand midnights could never compare to him.
He was burly , Not too burly , but burly enough that every time he held me in his arms, I knew I was warm and safe.
His eyes were deep, Not too deep, but deep enough to draw me in and drown me forever.
It was in the way he walked, Big strides and a confident gait, Like nothing in the world would stop him.
It was in the way he spoke, Secrets in plain sight, Wisdom like an old sage, Soft but not too soft, Like the winds and rains would obey his every command.
There was something about his smile, Simple yet complicated, Like he had seen all the vicisitudes of life, Mischief and unprecedented intensity, It always made my heart beat faster.
It was the way he stood tall, Unyielding in the face of disaster, With a back that could carry the world, That was what left a shadow in my heart.
A yearning, an unquenchable thirst that only his presence could cure, Ah, is a warrior not the fatal poison of any flower? I lost myself the day I found him, He became the bane of my existence,
The yin to my yang. He.. He was my first love.
He was tall, Not too tall, but tall enough that I felt I would never reach him.
He was strong, Not too strong, but strong enough that I always felt I was useless in his battles.
He was dark, Not too dark, but dark enough that I never saw the scars he purposely hid.
He was burly, Not too burly, but burly enough that I was unable to see the cold that he blocked me from.
His eyes were deep, Not too deep, but deep enough to hide the demons that plagued his nightmares, Tainted with sorrow that I couldn’t recognize.
It was in the way that he walked, Like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, Like every step he took had to be steady lest he crumbled and fell apart.
It was in the way he spoke, Like he had experienced countless eras of existence, With fatigue coating every word, Words of caution in every sentence, Like he was scared someone else would go through what he had gone through.
It was in his smile, A soul deep powerlessness, Resignation mixed with indignation.
It was the way he stood tall, Willing to sacrifice himself, Who said saving the world was overrated?
That was what left a shadow on my heart, A regret that ran bone deep, I am unresigned. He… He was my last love.
So the other day while going home from work, I chanced upon a full moon 🌕. Well, not exactly chanced, I am a devoted moon watcher, so I always try watch the sky every night. The night sky is magical, I’d recommend star gazing any day. So back to what I was saying, I was entranced by the full moon so much that I wanted to exist in the same space with it, touch it and bathe in the moonlight. But sigh, it’s so far, too far. So ethereal, celestial, proud, distant. It will never know my thoughts. So of course I thought of a poem, to bury the helplessness in it.
You’re a heavenly fire, Your presence is my funeral pyre, Proud and rampant, That doesn’t stop me from being adamant, But I am only a dry paper crane, Just like a moth drawn to a flame, You draw me into your light, I am helpless to fight, You bathe me and drown me, You devour me till I cease to be, Oh I wish I could touch you just once, Under the night sky dance, I wish I could hear your voice, Anything, with words of your choice, How I wish you were aware of my existence, And the deep awe of your existence, Bewitch me, even as your grace gives me a wide berth, Chill me, freeze me to death, Vanquish me like a foe, Dying by your hands would be a mighty way to go.
Thoughts Sometimes, I just can’t control my thoughts No medication’s ever made them stop All I think about is everything I’m not Instead of everything I got ‘Cause I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be How to be a good friend to me ‘Cause sometimes I just feel like I’m a freak When I wake up, I just don’t like what I see All the way from my head right down to my feet I wish that I thought differently But I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be How to be a good friend to me Change Wonder if I’ll ever really change, mm ‘Cause I’m scared they’re all laughing, so I make the joke first If I beat ’em to the punchline, then I can’t get hurt Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be How to be a good friend to The voice inside my head that’s telling me I’m okay Entertain it for a second, then I push it away Yeah, I swear to God I’m trying, but I don’t know how to be How to be a good friend to me Thoughts Sometimes, I just can’t control my thoughts
Surprise ! I know alot of you must be wondering why there’s a part two. There are some things I failed to mention.
Like how I laugh alone at 3am while reading. My neighbors must surely think I am mad. Or how I started reading with a flashlight under the blankets after lights out at home. Someone is going to say that’s why I have problems with my sight. Hush. Or how books make me cry sometimes with the intensity of emotions I can never hope to witness in real life.
Reading hasn’t really been a smooth, fun-filled journey, as I might have made it sound. As mentioned in the previous post, I started reading from quite an early age. The books available to me then were children’s books. As it should be. I was quite naive, and innocent. Eager and ready to learn. I wish that had lasted longer.
It didn’t. Because I was deliberately introduced to complex books with adult themes by a person I don’t feel inclined to mention. Racism, mental illness, sexual abuse, rape, familial violence, religious violence , poverty and diseases , sexuality, suicide, nudity, sex, strong and offensive language, drug use. You name it. Like a sponge, I soaked up and absorbed everything in my young mind. I felt out of place with children my age because I knew too much, too much that I wasn’t supposed to know. It was grooming, now I know.
I blame that for the childhood I never had. I was withdrawn, anti-social with a mean and violent streak. Getting into fights. Cussing like a sailor. I guess it was all chalked up to being a child, I guess. How I wish. I was too mature for my age. And I wish somebody, anybody had taken the time to really see what was going on. Because I wasn’t trying to hide it. Until I did.
I was different. And I hated it. So I tried as best as I could to fit in. To be like everyone else. My mind became a dark place that I tried to run from every second of my existence. So I turned to books more. The same books that brought me there in the first place. I became more withdrawn. More hateful. Developed an unhealthy relationship with food because I skipped all the meals. I didn’t want to be around anyone. I’d pick my book and sit at the farthest corner of the field while the rest of the students had their meals and played. That’s how I started writing and drawing too. Trying to run away from myself.
I kept a journal full of the most hateful, violent and darkest words you’d never expect from a teen. I wrote every time I could. Trying to fill a hole. A void. Of what had been taken from me. I could go on forever, about what it took me to develop a healthy relationship with my books and writing. Some other time, though.
I remember a day in class/grade 8. I was looking for a book to read. So I went to the grade 7 classes to look for one. And I found one. The Dragon and the Phoenix by Eric Chou. I thought it was a book on mythical beasts and was very excited. So I read the synopsis. And wished I hadn’t. I asked the owner where she had gotten the book from. And she mentioned that an adult had given it to her.
I didn’t give the book back. And I told her if she was asked to return the book she should bring me to the owner. Why, in the name of Hades would anyone give a thirteen year old a very graphic book on love and sex, coupled with grotesque violence? Now I might have been a spineless coward who wasn’t able to question when the same thing was happening to me at a younger age but no way was I going to let it happen to another person. Not under my watch. I burnt the book the same day, in the evening. And willed the smoke and ashes to take away some of my bitterness.
It must be noted that what children know about adults’ sexual behavior and intimacy is influenced by what the children have seen and heard. Preschool children mostly know about such things as kissing and cuddling. About one in five 6-year-olds knows something about more explicit sexual behaviors.
Children’s sexual awareness starts in infancy and continues to strengthen throughout preschool and school-age years. All aspects of children’s development—including cognitive, language, motor, social, emotional, and sexual development—are linked to each other.
By age 10, many children are showing the first signs of puberty, and their interest in what this means increases. Their actions are directly influenced by exposure to information on the same either from their sorrounding, social media or books. [https://www.ncsby.org/content/childhood-sexual-development]
Alot has been done to protect minors from early exposure to explicit content from the media, social sites and television networks, due to the rapidly growing digitalized world. This includes the introduction of restricted access to content on major web sites and apps for specific ages. Also, The Children’s Internet Protection Act (CIPA) is one of a number of bills that the United States Congress proposed to limit children’s exposure to pornography and explicit content online.
However there’s a lack of clear legislation on access and provisions of similar content in the form of printed copies to children. Comics and adult fiction among other categories are unrestricted and easily available to teens and pre-teens.
Until such a measure is enacted, it is our duty to protect the younger generation from exploitation and guide them correctly until they are old enough to make such decisions on their own.
All in all, books are good. Read brethren. Read so that you stop wondering where others went to school. Cue Lil Maina ( Najua unashangaa kwani nilienda chuo gani? 😂😂) Read so that you have something to say when your friends are having intelligent conversations and arguments. Usikuwe tu unasema Weh! na I know right, when you don’t even know what is going on. Read so that you understand when The News Gang is analyzing current political trends. Read so that you have something to say when you meet someone over coffee, si story za jaba tu. Read so that the people around you don’t suffer because of your stupidity. Don’t be a liability due to your ignorance.
Read for yourself. To broaden your mind. To challenge your beliefs. Change if necessary.
“The person who deserves most pity is a lonesome one on a rainy day who doesn’t know how to read.”
I love books. I love music. I love writing. I love dancing. I love chocolate. I love ice cream. My doctor says I should cut down on dairy products though. Well, there goes half of my personality. Sigh.
Today I’ll talk about books . I love books. I don’t know how to express the intensity of that statement. I LOVE BOOKS. So much. Too much, even. There has always been a book in my hand for as long as I could put words together to make a sentence. Oh, I have read, and read, and read. I still can’t get enough.
My friend says that the easiest way to kidnap me would be to lead me to a street full of books and cats. I can’t disagree without lying. I will address the relationship between me and cats some other day. But I love those furry, fuzzy, scratching and hissing bastards.
Love is a strong word, isn’t it? I agree. It’s something I purpose not to throw around casually. But there’s nothing else that can describe what books make me feel. That has inspired my love for writing too. The wish, the hope that some day I’ll be able to make another person feel the same way. That I’ll be able to give back to the writing community, if not as much as I have received, at least a portion of it.
Initially, my mother was happy that I had taken a liking to books. You know what they say about cultivating good habits from a young age. Well, it was okay until I’d sit on the couch for hours on end, engrossed in books and detach myself from the world. Detach, because the world of books was an escape. Now that I think about it, I started running away a long time ago, unfortunately.
She’d call me, a million and one times, loud enough to wake up the dead and end up thinking I went out, only to find me curled up on the couch like a cat, lost in the words of Sidney Sheldon and the likes. You should have seen her face. First mistake, feet, probably dirty from a marathon trip to the kitchen for a snack, on her precious couches. Second mistake, not answering when called. Unfinished assignments and house chores were just part of what she’d bring up later.
Now I must tell you that my mother is a very fierce and strict woman, in every sense of the words. Sometimes she’d give me a thorough beating. Which I deserved, in all honesty. Not that that stopped me from repeating the same mistakes over and over again, beatings notwithstanding. I guess she got tired at some point, and resorted to verbally beating me.
The primary school I went to initially did not have a library system. Did that stop me? No. I would go to class after class, including grades higher than mine, borrowing novels from anybody and everybody. My advantage was my fast reading speed and a sweet tongue. Convincing owners and stuff, you know . For every book that I found, there was a ‘line’ behind the person currently reading the book. Which basically meant that you had to wait for a number of people before getting your turn with the book.
Many tactics, beseeching and timely puppy eyes later, I’d have convinced someone who wasn’t even done reading a book to lend it to me for a couple of hours. True to my word, I would be done by the agreed time. How? Reading at every second. Whether the teacher was in class or not, whether it was break time or not, whether it was meal time or not. Sometimes I attribute my poor eating habits and less than satisfactory performance to these actions. I was caught severally and punished for reading during classes, as if that stopped me. But do I regret it? No. In the same situation I’d do exactly the same, or worse.
Fortunately, in the last few years of my primary school education, the school started a library system to encourage reading among the students and even set aside specific hours strictly for reading. I kid you not, I went through each and every book available, both languages, and was done by the time I did my certificate of primary education exams. I always look back and laugh at how crazy I was, (still am) . Well, my creative writing exams were always the best, if I say so myself.
At some point, my father availed books from his old collection. I learnt how to take care of books from him, because I could see the effort put in making sure every book was diligently preserved. The most notable one was his original copy of The Government Inspector by Nikolai Gogol, which happened to be the setbook he had done during his high-school days. After reading the book, I went through it with him, as we made fun of the characters, most especially the mayor, Anton Antonovich, his wife Anna, their daughter Mary, the fake inspector Ivan Ivanovich and the mischievous Dobchinsky and Bobchinsky. This has to be the most wholesome moment I have shared with my father. This also formed my earliest impression of Russia. Haha, I’ll leave politics for another day, don’t worry.
Looking back also, my father did alot, though unknowingly, to support and grow my love for reading. Every time he came home from work, which was only a few days every three months or so, he’d make sure to bring a huge stack of every newspaper issue he had obtained within the time he had been gone. I don’t think I can even explain how I used to look forward to this! It’d be the first thing I looked for when he came. Of course after greetings and helping bring the rest of the shopping into the house. I am a proper daughter after all. Well, as proper as one can be.
Then the next round of disagreements with my mother would begin. Because I’d hog and hoard all the newspapers. How dare anyone try to take away this precious reading material away from me for whatever reason? Haha, it didn’t end up well, as you can imagine. I didn’t have the courage to act willfully while my father was around. And in any case the newspapers were meant for everyone, for whatever use. Including my grandfather who loved using the black and white pages to make his usual rolls of tobacco. I’d get mad every time I found an issue I hadn’t read missing. I’d get so frustrated and even cry sometimes. It was that serious.
Possessive as I was, I didn’t hesitate to share the newspapers with my fellow students, if not for the educational value, at least for a bit of a break from the monotony of course work. Of course under the conditions that no page would be missing, or colored or dirtied. And trust me when I say I used to check all of them afterwards, page by page, newspaper by newspaper. It’s these newspapers that introduced me to columnists like Tony Mochama, Silas Nyanchwani, Beryl Wanga Itindi, Sunny Bindra, Mutahi Ngunyi(political analyst) , Mwalimu Andrew, Josh Nanjero among others. Talking of Tony Mochama, is it me or does he resemble Mr. Oyaro (AGHS)? Busherians riddle me this.
Joining high school opened up a whole new world of.. You guessed it, books and more books ! Endless books! Everywhere! Oh my goodness. Micere Githae Mugo, Tony Mochama, Koigi wa Wamwere, Josiah Mwangi Kariuki, Rebecca Nandwa, Meja Mwangi, Grace Ogot, Margaret Ogola, Francis D. Imbuga, Marjorie Oludhe Macgoye, Ngũgì wa Thiong’o, Maya Angelou , Stephen King, Nora Robert’s, Danielle Steel, Virginia Woolf, J.K. Rowling, James Patterson, Homer, Ernest Hemingway, Jane Austen, Benjamin Franklin, Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Seuss, Roald Dahl, Mark Twain, C.S. Lewis, Harper Lee, Charles Dickens, William Shakespeare, George Orwell, Leo Tolstoy, William Faulkner, Henrik Ibsen, John Steinbeck, Edgar Allan Poe. Oh, how I wish it was possible to list all of them.
So of course, read I did. And oh boy, did I read! Ask around, they’ll tell you. And I read, and read, and read, and read. I am still reading to date. This endless reading has kept me out of more trouble than it has gotten me into. It kept me occupied when I could have been in and with the wrong company. It kept me sane when everything was too much. Books have taught me alot of what I know. They have admonished me, chastised me, guided me, provoked me to think and broadened my mind. It’s a gift I will never be able to repay. That’s why I write. It’s part of my efforts to give back.
Reading has also contributed to my poor social skills too, unfortunately. When people were busy socializing and making friends, I was lost in James Patterson thrillers, trying to solve crimes with detective Alex Cross, pitying the Baudelaire orphans and villifying Count Olaf in A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket, crying in John Green’s The Fault In Our Stars, catching up with the sensation that was Chasing Red, Nancy Drew, among others.
I have loved, and still love books to the extent that sometimes it physically pains me to share a good book. I am a jealous lover. Sue me. I still end up sharing though, because I want another person to experience the magic that books possess. I share my love for books with every new person I meet, because I wish for more people to be readers. Thinkers. Broad-minded people. Liberated people. It is common knowledge that most stifling of all shackles are mental shackles . Ignorance is the greatest enemy to prosperity.
To be realistic, I don’t approve of some things I did, despite everything I have said earlier. Hobbies are good, but one should be able to balance between chores, responsibilities and free time. Reading during classes is also wrong. There is a time and place for everything, I believe . It easy for all that to blur especially with the advent of e-books easily available on our mobile gadgets, but discipline is an important virtue to cultivate.
My dream is to one day own a private collection of leather bound books, a library if you may. And the only thing standing between me and that, is only time. Now because the way some of you handle books makes me feel like assaulting you , let me leave you with a few tips on how to handle and care for books.
Hold the books in your clean hands, dirty hands stain the pages.
Do not fold the pages of the book for reading again, use bookmarks or paper clips.
Keep your favourite books away from children and pets to avoid torn, missing and drawn-on pages.
Do not read books while eating or drinking, because there is still the fear of food and drink stains on the books.
Also, did you know about the human library? The Human Library is an international organization and movement that first started in Copenhagen, Denmark, in 2000. It aims to address people’s prejudices by helping them to talk to those they would not normally meet. The organisation uses a library analogy of lending people rather than books. (Wikipedia)
“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies . . . The man who never reads lives only one.”
Was it just yesterday, That we promised each other forever? Oh, but words are brittle than clay, Was it just yesterday, That I knew every inch of your soul? Well I guess it’s time to pay, I believed your words, And you pierced me with swords.
You’re playing with fire, Don’t you fear getting burnt? Am an assassin for hire, What if you die by my hand? You play with the thin line between life and death, So unaware that this could be your last breath, Ignorant of the fact that I’ve crossed to the other side, Little one, run, hide, Don’t be fooled by this façade, Love is a lie, man – made, And I am a monster , Go, I hear my demons calling. Go.
Hi, are you there? Did you ever really care? Can we go on an evening walk, Hold hands and maybe talk? Do I even exist in your world? You view everything with the eyes of a child, Believing in the goodness of everyone, Trusting that the good always won, How about me, Who is as terrible as they could all be, Who has shown you the depths of depravity and the highs of need, Who only to your dark desires feed, It’s 3am, Hi, are you there? Can we talk?
If only you would realize some day, how much have you hurt me, If only your heart ever, craves for me or my presence… If only you feel that love again someday for me, If only you are affected someday by my absence… Only you can end all my suffering and this unbearable pain, If only you would know what you could never procure… If only you go through the memories of past once again, Since the day you left my heart has bled, no one has its cure… If only you would bring that love, those showers and that rain… If only you would come back and see what damage you create, I’ve been waiting for your return since forever more… If only you would see the woman that you have made, You said we cannot sail through, how were you so sure? If only you can feel the old things that can never fade, You may have moved on, but a piece of my heart is still with you… I know how I’ve come so far alone; I know how I’m able to wade, People say that I’m insane and you won’t ever come back again… Maybe you would have never made your separate way, Maybe you would have stayed with me and proved everyone wrong… If only you would know the pain of dying every day, If only you would feel the burden of smiling and being strong…
With a bunch of chocolate and fast melting ice cream I walk under the glow of the moonlight. It’s a beautiful night tonight. The sky is breathtaking, stars, the moon, a cloud and another. The air is cool, a gentle comforting breeze. My headsets are playing music on shuffle, trying to surprise me. As if.
I walk past the mostly deserted shopping center and throw away my now empty cup. I see a lady seated alone on the cold green benches that litter the space. She looks so, alone. It’s quiet. There’s nobody around. It strikes a chord in me. I thought I’d be sitting here alone tonight. She isn’t even playing with her phone. She is just staring into space. Seemingly lost. I feel bad. I have chocolate in my pocket, maybe it will make her evening better.
I really want to approach her. But it’s a fight between me and my anxiety. What if I stutter? What if I she thinks am being annoying? My legs pull me further from the lonely silhouette as I wage battle with the anxiety. Don’t be a wimp! I chide myself. You can do this. I make a u-turn, swallowing the regret already forming at the back of my head.
“Hello? Are you waiting for someone?” I immediately regret it. I sound timid, stupid even. Wow! Way to go ma’am. Normal people ask how one is doing. What is wrong with you? What if she was stood up? Have you looked at the time? A million reasons my opening statement is wrong suddenly make themselves known to me and I try not to face-palm.
She smiles. It’s a small tired smile. I know those ones. “Hello, yes I am waiting for someone, it’s taking them a while”. I know the feeling. I hate being kept waiting. I find it very rude. I hate keeping people waiting too. Before I blurt out something stupid I ask how her day was. Can’t complain much. That’s what she says. She’s brave, this one, heartbreakingly brave. She asks how I am, how my day was.
Suddenly I don’t know what to say. This wasn’t about me, I want to complain. I never know how to answer those questions. How are you? How was your day? I find that most people don’t ask because they care, they ask as a formality. Social discipline and order. Why. What are you going to do if I tell you that I am not okay? So what if I had a bad day? Do you even have the patience to understand why or do you just want to say sorry and get over and done with it? It’s a bit uncomfortable bringing feelings into a conversation, I know. Everybody is convinced that being cold and detached is the way to go. So why do you even ask if you don’t care?
As I think, I make some wierd hand signals. I hope that means something, because I genuinely don’t have an answer. Lucky for me, she understands. Before I chicken out, I ask her if she likes chocolate. She replies in affirmative and I am glad. I don’t know what I would have done if she didn’t. Probably swallowed my tongue trying to come up with a comprehensible statement and die. What a way to go down.
I fish out some dark chocolate from my pockets and offer it. She smiles and the cloud in my soul lifts a little. Just a little. I smile too. Then she goes ahead and asks, “what about you?” The smile gets stuck on my face and suddenly my expression is uglier than a crying alien. I thank the heavens for the less than spectacular lighting. I probably look like a constipated monkey.
I have given, offered, but hardly has anyone ever asked that question. To say it takes me off balance is an understatement. My brain is mocking me. You should have walked away while you still had the chance. Somehow, I manage to explain that I have more. At least that’s what I think. I unconsciously add some self-deprecating humor in the process and by the time I realize it I want to bury myself in a hole somewhere and disappear off the face of the earth.
I look away. The stars look so beautiful. She sighs. I sigh too. In that moment, in the silence, we’re two souls, two tired souls, under the same sky.
“Its been five years since I was last here. Everything looks so unfamiliar.” she starts, and we both sigh again. Five years is a long time. Enough time for the world to be fucked over twice. Enough time for alot of things to change. Enough time for people to change. For friends to turn into strangers. I give her the same small tired smile and urge her to continue. It’s best if I don’t talk. The more I talk the more the chances she’ll end up thinking that I am mental. I am happy to listen.
She doesn’t hold back, and I am glad I stopped by. She tells me about love, and life, and pain, and success, and failure. I marvel at the strength and sheer will power of this amazing woman infront of me. A wave of dizziness hits me and I move to sit on the cold bench. Yes, I have been standing all this while. I am wierd like that.
“I am here to apologize, that’s the only reason I am willing to put my pride aside and wait ” she adds out of the blues and I nod in understanding. She laughs, it’s a short laugh, like the last beat of a sad song. Chilling. Haunting. “I am the last born in my family. I rarely apologize, am never in the wrong. But this time round am truly aware that I am the offender. I am abit nervous” I admire her more. Alot of people I have met have problems with admiting their mistakes and apologizing. Ego games. I find myself apologizing for everything, alot, even for things that aren’t my fault. Sigh.
She continues, and I listen. I tell her she reminds me of someone, and surprisingly enough, it’s a mutual friend. Well, acquaintance. We make a few jokes and I feel like I’ve known her for years.
She has a five year old daughter, she says. Called Betty, short for Beatriz. I tell her it’s a beautiful surprise, because that’s my name too, she laughs and exclaims at the coincidence. It sounds genuine. The laughter. I ask about her daughter and her eyes glow as she talks about her. She is a completely different person. I like this version of her more.
It’s 10:20pm. I might probably get locked out of my hostel. But it’s worth it. I want to hear more about the day Beatriz caught a butterfly and didn’t want to let it go. I don’t want to leave Cecily alone in the now empty shopping center. It’s cold. And I know how fast the cold can seep into the cracks of the heart. I’ll stay until this man with no sense of time shows up. Well, in his defense he is in for an emergency meeting. But still, men, don’t keep your women out there waiting for you. They might catch a cold. I might catch a cold myself.
A black range rover pulls over. It’s 10:45pm. I am definitely getting locked out tonight. A man walks out and I am ready to bolt. “Come over and say hello to my friend”, Ceci, as she says I should call her, calls out. I really want to run right now but apart from biting my lips so hard till I can taste blood, I stay put. Mr. Man greets her with a hug and I fist bump him. Bringing up the matter of time, I give Ceci a goodbye hug and whisper a few words. Just a reminder to be accommodating and communicate properly.
I now bolt. Literally. I can’t help it. She probably thinks I am mental now. Oh well, I tried. I look back one last time to see them holding hands walking towards the car, and wish them well. I remember her words, fight for love. Sigh. If it was as easy as fighting the whole lot of us would have burnt down the world by now. You can’t fight if there’s nothing to fight for. Or if you’re the only one fighting. The most important thing is to learn when to hold on and when to let go.
I can’t stop running, so I race all the way to the hostel. It’s unlocked. Mercury must be in a good mood or something. You know, all that zodiac shit. I read my horoscope today morning, I know. Strange person. That’s me. Looking for direction and answers in The Indian Times. Anyway. I let the matron know that I’ll be outside and stand for a while to stare at the moon. She is so beautiful.
As soon as I get to my room, I start writing. Under the same sky.