All Things Dark and Tasteless

Oh you whining, ungrateful lot. When do you ever appreciate anything? Hmmm? WHEN?? You complain like a woman married to a broke man who seems to pair the term “sauce” with all things leafy and legumes. Does he not understand that cows, chickens and pigs were made to be eaten? Mbu biringanya.  Msssccchhhew. Who tells him you want clear, zit-free skin? There’s also a reason samona was made. Mekako also.

Moving on. You Ugandans have taken this freedom thing too far. Because they allow you to complain about sensible things like unchanging election results, you now think you can sneak in other grievances. Where are your manners? Oh, wait. You must be the lot that went through school minus caning. Sigh. More work for me. But I will try. To teach you. Educate and enlighten. On the saintly virtue that is compromise. When food prices compete with house construction materials, you compromise. And you buy the meat. You can find a free house in Kololo. I swear. One is just about to be vacated.

Sugar is bad-Yes Dr. Phil was right. If you watch TV, you know that Dr. Phil has nothing to do with physical issues. I just needed a popular name. Now, because sugar prices have shot up 5 times the amount in as many months is no reason to pout.  Children, sugar gets you fat. Eventually. Our economy is helping us out. If you cut out sugar for the rest of the year, you can lose 5kgs which will provide more room for gluttony come Christmas. See?

All things foreign- Why o why, do you even rant about this? This is history repeating itself. No, we have not sent Asians packing again. Yet. First we’re sorting out the Somalis. Foreign things are the reason you spoilt kids are suffering at the unseen kick of the economy. We’re throwing them out. Mbu blueband. Just dip your bread in the tea. I know the tea has no sugar. But no blueband+ no sugar= 10kgs weight loss. Smile for auntie?

Veggies are good-Auntie knows you don’t understand how katunkuma has moved from mama’s weed pile to your plate. It’s like this; katunkuma burns cholesterol. And meat has plenty of that. Unnecessary fat. You do want to fit in those barely there dresses, don’t you? And the men? Please. It is time. Bellies are 1999-rated. We prefer tone and muscle. Quit pigging out. Pun intended.

Giving glory-God made the moon for a reason and you foreign-things-loving people have denied them their power for decades. Now, we must repent. And our beloved government is helping out. No power for…well, a long while. Bright side is you get to relive your granny’s childhood and play with battery-run radios. Now, who ever thought they’d have common history with jajja?

You see? Oba you squint? Whichever. The current situation has a dark, tasteless and unsatisfying appeal. But this is the stuff history is made of.

I knew I’d have you all smiling by the end of this post…err, typing session. Good boys and girls.

Mscchhhheeewww.

Yes. That is a jeer. We are ranting and words just won’t do. Ok. Scratch that. I am ranting. But no, scratch that again. Erique spent Friday afternoon roaming the streets of Kololo. I allow that the frown is characteristic. But the fist aimed at the sky is not. Even the askaris on the affluent streets let him be. He looked that dejected. So yes, we are ranting.

For our country.

For the pearl that has become the proverbial gold ring-in-swine’s –nose.  These are hard times, people. If you thought living in a cell phone-less era was hard work, try living in the era where you cannot afford airtime for the damn phone. And no, I cannot do without it. What am I supposed to do? Mail my comment to Face Book?

Maureen Likes This!!

So in lieu of the harsh winds that are blowing across our country, I am venting my frustrations on those I believe are to blame. No, I cannot point to myself. I am well-bred Ugandan who will always find cause for my unhappiness in other peoples’ decisions. I take after my leaders please. IE “Where were you when I and others were fighting in the bush for the "peace and tranquillity" that now prevails?” Putting to question-

·       The parents- Charity begins at home. So does quarrelling. Where were you when other parents were setting up home in serious countries, huh? Dubai, Switzerland…and you chose Uganda. Even Tanzania would have made more sense. They have real beaches (we have shores!!)

The real deal.
Okay. You loved the weather. Couldn't you have found your way to cabinet? Then I’d at least attend book launches while other people’s parents pay taxes for our 4wheel drives. Uganda. Eish.

·       GOD- I get that you have a sense of humour. You created Miley out of a rock star dad. Lolest. But this joke has been unfunny for a while now. Do you not get that its time for Jesus to come back? And save our cowardly selves? We have beds so no manger business. And UPE.

·       Gavumenti- I cannot even spell you properly. You’ve lost the plot so bad, you earned yourselves a new word. It translates to”way, way beneath the lowest level of incompetence” I mean...when the youth of the country turn to singing as occupation and WBS airs their videos minus any shame, then you know. It is time to find your shame. Tuswaale ko.

·       U$D- How a foreign currency can wreck this much havoc is beyond my frustrated mind. The country didn’t even colonise us. We are not related in any way. 

Sketch your baddez
They sent back the first man that tried his hand at figuring this out. I believe Seya’s forgeries were patriotic efforts gone wrong. We need to find the visible connection with our Shs. And then break it. We refuse to affiliate with anything that further takes down our country’s value. We’re not left with much.

Striking a bargain.

Because God is a no-bargainer.
He doesn't kusaala ko.
Endless prayers, novenas, litanies and threats later, she's still in the same place. Ranting doesn't scare God. She has sent grown men to near-madness with her tantrums. God just looks on and goes,
"Gabriel, come watch. She's learned some new cuss words and stinging phrases."
And then He goes on doing the business of perfecting other people's lives while she falls into a deep, dreamless slumber. Listening to The Script. Danny O'Donoghue. She's thinking of ways to let him know that she'll have his babies, listen to him sing all day and feature in his videos at no cost and tattoo his name onto every available space on her body without sounding too desperate.
Or obsessed.

Smitten

She wishes God would make His mind up. That He would find another brilliant hottie to mess around with. But then, how many of those are in existence? Un-roll your eyes, Liz Kobusinge.
The curve balls He's throwing are not good news for her hotness. They kill her smile and dull her witty self.
How can she start being full-time melancholic when the world is used to bubbly and vivacious her? Sigh...

God does things His way. God is not moved by tears or  her threats to pile a ladder onto the highest chair possible just to get to heaven, part the skies and shake her fist at Him and tell Him to QUIT trippin'. Enough already.

First, that chair.

Why won't you give straight answers? Why are you allocating the not-bright-at-all grey colour to theme her life?
Because while she has sinned-greatly, while she has allowed sloth to get in the way of getting to the very top and while the lusty-thing for Clooney will not go away, she's tried. Real hard.
To believe. And trust. And hope. And be nice to people who write "I am" as "am".
Who knew God did things by the half? That he does something, you thank Him and walk away believing it was divine will at play. Sad maybe, but smug. And comfortable in the knowledge that you just obeyed God.
Then, WHAAAM!!
MAJOR FREAKING WHAAAM.
She was not meant to apologise for walking. She wasn't meant to look into his eyes and see the pain she had caused.
No, she was not meant to kick her strapped ankle and want to die. Because she asked you, God. She did.
The doubts that she might have let go a  good thing-albeit all its complexities is not a nice thing to carry around.
She was not supposed to think the dreaded "What if???" at any one point. She was not meant to feel styupeed. But she does. Extremely styupeed.
She should be in self-righteous and its-all-your-fault mode right now. Because it was his fault. He screwed up. Botched the job. Slept on duty. Tripped. He messed up.
Except it turns out, she messed up.
And is blaming it on the Almighty.

That's just to emphasize the point. Not going to happen.

But He just goes on going on. Sending cloudy skies on a Friday evening. Because threatening to write bad things about God doesn't shake Him one bit. Mbu, He's been through worse.
So she kulamuzaas.
This drama just cannot go on. Her heart is out of whole pieces to be plucked out and chewed up then given back to her. To try and erase the damage. She is a writer. Not a magician.
She needs clarity. And pain erasing balm. And direction.
She needs to stop getting past him and then having him come back, if only to show her what a mess her mind is.
She needs him around forever. Or gone for good.
In return, she promises to let him go for good. Or try and love him the way a woman should love a man.
She will even make his evening dose of what-it-takes-to-close-a-particularly-bad-day;

She needs closure.
And a gin and tonic.

Ni Furahiide.

Susanna, Book Exchanges and New-lady-love.

Last evening was spent at Isha's.
The lovely, warm and exotic looking place two streets below my work place. The lady who runs it makes me think of Latin American soap actresses in their flowing dresses and head wraps. She is black, though. And as cool as hell. That doesn't sound quite right.
And her lamps...I want. All of them. I just couldn't figure out how I'd explain the sudden darkness and tusk-shaped bulges in my bag if I'd given in to temptation and packed them.
So I let them be. And kept throwing them come-to-me-looks.
But yes, we went to watch poetry recitals. We, the deep, well-read and gifted of this my town, went down to Isha's so we could bond, throw well-worded insults at the rest of Kampala's not-so-deep population. In true snobbish fashion, I sat there and felt extremely air-ish because I am part of this magnificent few. The few persons who understand and get words as much as I do.
It helped that I was seated smugly between some of the coolest girls I know. And got to know. Mildred, Darlyne and Kampire, I met last night(more on Mildred later).

Mildred and Liz had arranged a book exchange. We are all part of the coolest ever book club/page and due to endless links, posts, quotes from incredible books and lately, joint chagrin at this so-full-of-himself-pompous and widely unread author, we have developed an over the internet and social network bond. After the introductions and gin and coke orders, we got down to business. Recitals. Singing.

APWICDBWPW(H)GT

Jason Ntaro, if I have never said this, allow me to do so today. I absolutely, thoroughly love you. That your poems are spur of the moment mobile text section creations only makes my blood rush faster.
You have a way with words. A way that makes me gape in awe each single time you do a recital. My mind is a poem away from stalking you.
Please allow?

Lyric me away please...?

Susanna. The Lusoga poem( that was written in a complete Kisoga accent). By a man in shades at 9pm. That irked me. Shades in the pm. But then he went on about wiggling bottoms, wasp-sized waist and doing unmentionable deeds to this Susanna epitome of female glory.
And Susanna supposedly responds by knighting him with tiltles such as Kyabazinga and giving him free pass and own tickets to endless acres of land. Pause.
I thought that was only done by the Tooro women?
And he got a thunderous applause. We ululated. With  spur-of-the-moment Kisoga-ish tunes.

Call it the poetry in the air. Call it the gin in my system. Call it what lust. Call it what you will.
But last night, I fell.
I was enamoured. Deeply, giddily and gin-assisted into falling in love. First time love. Hasn't happened to me since Clooney in ER.
Then Mildred happened. It helped that unlike most first dates who are massively loaded with poor jokes, next-to-zilch ability for deep yet witty conversation, Mildred came bearing books. For me. For me?? TWO BOOKS.

Ring My Bell...

Her deep blue dress with the cute red belt and pretty hair band did not slow down my palpitating heart.
Thank you Di Ncy-for starting the book group. How else would I have had a second shot at instant love with this amazing awesomeness of well-read, well-spoken and  book bearing woman?

Hoping the love will be requited.
Will find out at our second date.
Yes. Second date. We have one.
Be still my heart.

This has all the looks of dark and intense...
(In my Oxytocin infused mind)

Dealing. Faith. Breathing.

I have the most murderous thoughts going through my mind.
Gruesome images of body-mutilation and stabbing and choking. Not of myself please. I am way too narcissist to consider putting my pretty self through any physical pain. I want to hurt you. In ways I haven't wanted to hurt anyone since the day they went and cancelled Friends. Okay. It wasn't that bad. Still.
I want to hurt you for hurting me and for being the biggest asshole this side of the planet. I want to hurt you because you re-define callous and reckless. And heartless. Yes. You, the-one-that-I-just-let-go-of are the universal definition of heartless.
And I am the universal definition of proud and strong-headed and mentally-loose-ish. At least by your standards. So, what the hell was a brilliant girl like myself even doing getting close to a...person like yourself?
Brilliant girl is not seeking answers. It is a rhetorical question.

This is meant to really hurt.

Alcohol is my drug. Gin is my bestest friend. Somewhere up there next to God-when I am not venting and telling Him to leave me alone.
And those Black Russians? Man, oh man...Vodka and rum are my comforters. Especially when it seems all my guardian angels are taking a very long and extended break from me. Alcohol helps me deal.
Stella used to. Then she just had to go and die. How so real-life-like. For the one person you allow yourself to be broken with, the one person you can cry with, to die in the year when real life and all its complications start to happen.

I miss you. Always.

There is Celia. But then she works in Nairobi. Convenient right? I should learn to cry over the phone. Except that will be quite frustrating for poor Celia and damaging to my smart phone.
Where on earth is Michael when I need him desperately? What's a woman to do when the very persons who are her warm arms and I-can-be-my-messy-and-currently-weepy-self with people are not within a boda ride's reach?
Said woman turns to alcohol.

My bestest....well. One of...

Dealing is difficult. Dealing is painful. Letting go is exhausting. Moving on sounds so easy when Oprah says it. In real life, moving on first of all requires you get out of bed in the morning. And getting out of bed is the hardest thing to do when you have to move on. There should be a warning manual for the twenties. Life gets foggier, friends get...complex and judgmental, God becomes a disturbingly distant figure and the Bible ceases to make sense.
Snogging people you have no right or business snogging becomes well....very likely.

Dear God.
At what point did life take such a ferociously dramatic turn? How did the aches, pains, sores, wounds pile up without me realising it?Why the hell does my spell check thingie insist on me spelling realise with a z? I am a product of British, NOT American colonialism.
Bloody Americans.
I am a victim-self-made victim of stoicism, facade(ing), first-bornism( that one's on the parents) and the psycho illness a friend described as the God-complex. Saving everyone and pushing me aside until I wake up and realise I have created my own hell.
Shadows don't make for nice company. Aching hearts don't make for easy breathing. Especially if one is an asthmatic. Stoic natures don't make for easy crying. And this does not make for easy dealing.
Because crying doesn't leave bright and sunny spaces in one's heart. It squeezes out a good deal of the pain.
But it leaves despair. Dark, empty and bottomless despair. I am not one for crying. But I think its about time.

Time I took the mask off, rolled aside the thick rock across my heart and cried.
Real, deep, gut-wrenching and heartbreaking sobs. The sort that would send my demons packing. Because my demons are of that nature. The lets-pretend-and-play-fine. They hate emotion.
I think its time. That.I.Cried.
I do not need company please.
Stella's ghost and gin bottle are quite enough.

"Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen."-Hebrews 11:10.

 And in that one verse, the good-intention(ed) apostle Paul went and made faith the most forsaken, challenged and ignored substance of life.
Because faith is the very basis of all things-faith in a better day, true love, totally accepting friendships...faith for the dark in all its forms to finally go away.
How does one expect mortal and fallible beings such as the 6 billion mass of pain-ridden, wound-carrying and fearful human species to have faith enough to last one through the tragedies that most of us call our lives?
In a world of cause-less wars, starving children whose only crime is being born of parents who have failed to master the concept of co-existence, in a country where class-differences are slowly building up enough reason for war, how do you speak to us of faith?
Faith in what? or whom?
A deity that walked away from this place centuries ago? Governments that plunder, loot and then stand by their patriotic albeit hypocritical and clearly-wrong decisions?
Excuse me please.
We might be made in God's image but surely there is a reason God took His own away from this just after 30 years. He should have stayed. Keep encouraging the rest of us mere mortals along.
But what sort of loving parent leaves their beloved son in this forsaken place?
So pardon my cheek God, but when do you plan on coming back for the rest of us? We also are your children.
Right?

Say Paul, ya think you could write letters to this day's peeps?

There is alot to be said for life's happy moments. But in summary; they do not last. Love dies. Or fades away. Or burns you.
Friends leave, friends move, friends die.
I will miss you Yasmin. Come back soon. Please. Please. You're one of my rocks.
Dreams die or take the life out of you as you fight for them.
Men can be real scum-of-the-earth-characters. Not all of them. On this, I will always insist.
Happiness is fleeting. Joy is something we all write about. Way less than all of us actually believe it.
The truth is, it is as elusive as happiness. Pain and hurt are lacking in the etiquette department. They do not call before they show up.
So we smile. We laugh. We kiss and make merry when we can. We grab at our dreams the first chance we get. Because deep down we are painfully aware of this-that this minute's happiness most likely doesn't have any intentions of making it to the next minute.

So this girl turns to alcohol. And mentally challenges the now sainted-and-heaven-residing Paul.
And reaches for her inhaler.
No one said this was going to be easy.

Drunk, achy and...waging war. Mbu.

Dear His Excellency, Please Chase Away Silver City

First of all, they are outside countries’ people. And you said something akin to outside countries’ people and things being responsible for the increased disappearance of money from our wallets. That is reason one. They are foreign. You need to motivate us to follow your example in using only locally made things. Like the soon-

to-be-defunct-Ugandan-made-sugar. Tikwe?

Uganda-where other things are responsible for our dire economy.

When they had just opened shop in Uganda, which was around 2007, all was well. Like how in 1990, the country had better roads than it does now. The food was excellent. The waitresses and waiters were masters at treating the customers like royalty. Things were going bulungi. We loved them because they made us feel like we were experiencing a bit of movie-sm in our dusty city. Men unlucky enough to be running after a campus girl at the time must have cursed the place. You asked the girl where she would like to have dinner, convinced she was still excited about Nandos’ free pizza Tuesday. She said Silver City. You panicked. But then, you asked. The sharp ones carried chips and liver to her room. Don’t ask, don’t tell.

The car is HOT. The man is NOT.

Silver City however started to kumanyiira us. Because we are hospitable people. Because we have maalo for new joints and restaurants and will frequent them just to walk away when another joint opened its doors. Ask Cheese bar. But we were nice to Silver City. We kept going back because this time, we were ready to commit. It helped that they had the juiciest pork ribs this side of the Sahara. And we really haven’t tasted the ones on the other side of the Sahara. But wah…they did not treasure us. Us, the girls who had to put up with I know-I’m-boring-but-I-have-a-car-and-money-men just so we could escape another night of Wandegeya food. And the poor men who spent money and fuel (in those days, it was cheap) to dine a ka girl who just side-hugged you and skipped off to her room. Kampala girls. Msssccchhheeewww.

But the excellent food made up for the lack of common interest dates. Then they decided that because they have been here for one term, they could become so Ug and start being bulala. At least they should follow your example, Mr. President, and last three terms before going haywire. How do you serve a chicken breast between a stale Hotloaf bun and majestically term that a chicken burger? In these hard times where people give up lunch so they have taxi fare home, how do you charge UGX20,000 for a meal that consists of 12 fries(yes, I counted) and said horrible burger? What sort of idiot clears your plate away; intact with most of 

the meal and then asks if you enjoyed your meal?

My meal looked NOTHING like this.

The Silver City sort of idiot. Three times of bad service and horrible food isn't a bad day. It’s a pattern. They go back; we use the space to grow sugar.

Spur Ranches-The Uganda Version? SUCKS.

Dear Life. (Rated R. For Some-What Strong Language)

Friday;
Dear Life.
Thank you. For the chance to live out this story. Thank you that I have been blessed with the amazing opportunity to be part of this dance. I have lived. I have loved. I have been blessed. I have excelled. I have learned. I have been loved. By friends. By family. By lovers. I have been at the receiving end of some good loving. Ans spoiling. Thank you for family that has loved me, supported me and stood by me. Thank you, Life for the gifts I have been blessed with. My way with words is not only my greatest gift but my greatest release. When I write, I put into words the things which would otherwise choke me. Thank you for friendships. The ones that have lasted years, the new ones and especially, the unexpected ones. Thank you, life for the love of books and all things written. Thank you for Maya Angelou and Liz Kobusinge-two of my favorite writers.
I thank you, from the bottom of my soul for rock music. For performers who speak from the heart. For Life House, Joshua Radin, Ingrid Michaelson, Amylee, Ne-Yo, Eminem and Christina Aguilera. Thank you for The Weepies, Sara Bareilles and Rob Thomas. And Lyfe Jennings. And Beyonce. I cannot leave out B.
Thank you for a heart that can love, has loved and still loves. Thank you for the scary but very-real ability to open my heart and pour all of me into loving others. Thank you life. For the chances that keep coming my way. Oh, thank you for another shot at my dreams. For Lucie and Liz-who pushed till I got my writing out there. Thank you for the ones who take the time to read my work. Thank you for whispering the words that put my aches and pains and fears to life. Bless you, for coke. And gin. And meat. And sleep. Yes, sleep...
Thank you, for forgiveness. That I have received. Especially the one I have given.
Thank you life for the story that is Makuba Muhairwe Nagasha Maureen. The story that is still being written.

Momo!

Saturday;
Dear life.
Please. Stop. The pain has become unbearable. The aches have the strongest holds on my heart. My dreams-the dreams you put to life, the dreams I have fought tooth and nail for, the dreams I gave up all comforts for, the dreams that have been putting the light in my eyes. Those dreams? They are crumbling before my eyes. The passion, the words...they are getting away from me. The voice that whispers the rhymes...that soft voice? It has gone still.
The pain of the ones I love the most eats me up. Burning my soul, squeezing my heart...the pain in their eyes, the questions I cannot answer, the past I cannot undo. The price for sins not my own, I cannot continue to pay.

Please....?

Dear life,
It should not be this hard. The search for the love that lasts, the smiles that stay and the laughter which never fades...it should not be this hard. My heart should not have to be ripped out just so you can test if I'm still alive. My soul should not be burned just so you can teach me yet another lesson-on faith. The begging should not be this demeaning. I should not be brought to my knees just so a few prayers can be answered.
No, I'm all out of tears to cry. I do not have enough spirit to even begin one more battle. I have not the faith to believe in miracles that take decades to get to me. No, I do not want to beg just so I can die. Yes. Die. Because when it gets this difficult, what is the point? To live with no light in my eyes, no spring in my step, no song in my soul...no. That is not to live.
I will take blackness. I will be glad to never wake again. I will choose the unending darkness. I will give back to you this...life. This life you call a gift to me, I will give back to you. Because it's no gift.
It is a burden I can carry no more.

Sunday;
But life.
WHAT THE HELL??
At what point do you stop? At what point do you draw the line? How do you go and give me something and then turn it to a burdensome load? Because now, I am mad. I am screaming and cursing you. Because you are a shameless bully. Because you love to complicate things. Because if its drama-free, you go and create the drama. Just for your private entertainment, you play chess with me and then smirk away as yet, another battle I lose. But not this time. My begging fell upon your conveniently-deaf ears. The pleas faded away,past your century-old and battle-hardened heart. That I offered to return the gift to you, was not enough. That too, has to go according to your timing. In the meantime, you poke. And prod. And pinch. And squeeze. And to lace it off, you punch. But man, have you picked the wrong person.
Dear I-do-things-my-way-even-if-someone-has-to-bleed-so-I-can-have-my-way aka life. I can bitch pretty good. Scratch that. I bitch awesomely. You push to the edge,I push off the cliff. You throw punches, I fight to knock out. You drain, drop by drop, I suck dry.
O Life. I learnt from the best. And I am a fast learner. I do not lose my lessons. You will stab my heart but my dagger will draw your heart out. You think you can rage? You should see my tantrums. You believe your tornadoes and storms will wear me out? You have not seen me blind and mad. I leave nothing un-turned. Not a single leaf.
Life. I am done. Begging, pleading, bargaining, waiting, hoping, false-smiling, pain-hiding. I AM D.O.N.E.
Two can play this game. I am grabbing you by your thick-dare-touch-me neck and I am not letting go. Until you relent. And let go. Of my dreams. My heart. My soul. My joy. I am taking back what you happily gave me all those years ago. My Life. I am taking it back. And I am going to live it out-loud. You will either join in the merry-living. or you will sit by and look on. You are not in charge anymore. I am.
Dear Life.
It takes two to tango.
And boy, can I swirl. And twirl. And jaba. 
Dear Life.
Leave me the fuck alone.

SOD OFF.

For Isabel. And myself.

At His Knees.

I sat before God…

I sat down at my maker’s feet…

Grabbing on to the only one that remains solid

The One whose love is without question.

                                             

I sat at my maker’s feet

I asked the one who watches over me

Where He had been lately

Why He had been silent

And why my heart was aching

Because the pain was numbing me

And the nightmares were now frequent.

I told Him that loves my soul,

Him, the lover of my spirit

I told Him the truth

The truth I could tell no one else

That I was all wrung out of strength

The fight in me was burned down…down to cold and lifeless ashes

I told the one whose love I had come to depend on

Told him that this time, I was out of my element

This fight, I could not take on.

I sat at the knees of the one my soul loves

The one who redeemed my lost self

Told Him I was losing my way. Again.

I told the Lord, the Lord of my life

Told Him I was spent

And, could use a lift.

From the dumps. From the hurt. The mess.

I sat at the feet of my maker.

And asked Him to make it better.

Fear. Acer. Him.

I will start by venting. On God. I got up this morning feeling all inspired and ready to write about three pieces today. So I log in and type away. Then some criminally-stupid error happened to the page and poof! went my deep and witty blog post. Man did I swear. After months of totally zilch inspiration, which is the most essential part of writing, the dwanzie of a computer eats up the first thing I put down. All swear words and curses to the silly computer fairy who was sleeping on duty. Msssscccchhhheeewww.

Unfocused Just.

Hours later, after I have gone over every possible way to re-acquire my handiwork, I have moved on. Life is short. Abusing this Acer gadget will not help. Let me put what's left of my inspiration to good use. New posting. Arise fairy. We've got knowledge to impart. Wisdom to share. Fears to confess.And you need to keep any form of article-eating, mind-flaming and talent-disrespecting bugs out of my way. Here goes;

Passion is underrated. Fear is the enemy. The enemy who knows all your deepest, darkest doubts, misgivings and character patterns and will not be shy about using them against you. The shrinks insist that that giving attention to fear is the surest way to have it wreck havoc in your life. But we do not give attention to fear. Fear pays us the attention. Fear clings to your heart and invades your mind and clutches your soul. Fear is not scared of us. Because fear has been around longer than any of us has. So it has the experience necessary to pin you down. Fair and square.

I have been engrossed in a battle with this enemy. Who seems to think that dragging images and replays from my memory bank will cause me to scare and like I always do, run. The fear is right. At least the tactic is. My memory bank is filled with scenes I wish I could erase. With faded but clearly-there reminders of past pains, past aches, past losses. The memories which are mine are being used against me. To eventually create more painful memories right after I give in and create a huge, dirty mess. Isn't life ironic?

Isn't fear devious?

How does one ever totally wipe away those stains to the mind? How does one let the past fully go so they can enjoy the now with no qualms about the past being repeated and causing the same past pains, with the same spirit-crushing results? Because I would like to go on. With life. With him.

But he scares me. He always did. Flame-hot passion doesn't exactly help matters. Especially since this is first-time-flame-hot-passion. Oh, there has been passion. The sort that warmed me.

This is burning me. And I am begging to be scorched.

Fire, follow me...???

There are things you do not believe in until you have seen them yourself. That I just might have found my human kryptonite is one of those things. I do not believe in kryptonites. I do not hold with the belief that one can have a great weakness for another human being. I do not understand being weak for another person. And I am not weak for this person. I am not being kryptonited, please. I am simply caught up in an intensity that has this rare but enduring ability to get deeper. I am running in a circle that for two years (albeit at intervals), has refused to come to an end. I am the girl who is being forced to question everything I ever stood for and believed in. Because what I believe in is simply that-beliefs. What I am in is words and everything else. Action. Feelings. Blood rushes. Everything deep and scary.

Pain is pleasure. And passion is pain. My body and heart have minds of their own. And I am no competition. That's a lie. I do not want to fight them.

There is something to be said about not being able to last an hour without touching someone and of the man who will not last an hour without turning to look at you. 

It is meaningless but somewhat deep things like these that are giving rise to the cold demons of fear within me. I do not like to be this way with another person. Yes, I wish for it. I pray for intensity and depth and friendship and that searing passion. I know I would not be in any thing that is without passion and intimacy. I pray for all these things and when they do show, I am like the dog that chases the car but doesn't know what to do when the car does stop. 

Because when you are this way with another person, you are vulnerable. Vulnerable and me don't make good friends. I prefer to have my head screwed on right at all times. But he makes my mind run away. And honestly, I don't exactly miss it.

Until it strikes.

Fear of the past repeating itself. Fear of the future that is unknown. Fear that if this the real deal, the battle is just beginning. Hell will break loose and commitments will be put to test.

I fear that because we have somehow failed to grasp the-let-us-leave-one-another-alone-and-actually-move-on part of this entire thing, we are in line for shocks and surprises. 

I fear that because we will not let go, because even when I am tantrum-ming like a three year old and we are fighting like cats, you are there. You never really leave. Some of the things that you did in the past are begging to be revisited. In the name of experience being the best teacher. The stories of your past are little arrows that pierce me each time someone unknowingly speaks of you. The extent of your drama pushes the run alerts so hard, I have to stop myself from picking the phone and cutting you completely out of my life.

Heaven doesn't seem to be in any hurry to help me. And I am only human. I am a girl who has come face to face with the stuff real life is made of. 

I am the girl who doesn't understand how pleasure and pain can go together. Because I am the girl who always had it figured out. Now I am the girl searching for answers. In not-so-clever-places.

His eyes for instance do not hold written-in-stone-answers. 

You Are Back. Or, Are You?

I smile at the world. The confident, sassy smile that I have come to call my own. I am witty all day long. I am the rock my friends have come to naturally lean on. Sorting out crises, keeping secrets. I am the person they all want me to be. Beacuse to be otherwise would just scare them away or worse, arouse their pity. So, I keep my fears to myself, I tuck my nightmares away. Deep into this mind that has been termed all things; beautiful, astute, intelligent, silly and mad. Stark-raving mad. My exterior is the stoic person I have turned into over the years. My interior is the graphic resemblance of an-after-tornado experience. Yet I smile on. My fears shake me all day long...and the shadows do not go away like the books said they would. They stay with you. They follow you.

The past has a life of its own. The past doesn't go away unless it decides to. Erasing all memory of you has not helped much. Staying away from the places you frequent has not kept you away. Strangling everything I felt for you has not quite committed the murder I was aiming at. 

You never went away. Not really. You were in every song that played. Your silhoutte accompanied each single-person gin and tonic date I had with myself. But how couldn't you be gone? How could the mention of your name still make me smile...on that rare occasion. Most of the time, it made me stark raving mad. The rest of the time, it weighed me down. With a heaviness so profound and achey, I felt I was suffocating.

But you sauntered in. Not giving a second glance to anyone. Until you saw me. And you smiled. And faltered. And hugged me. How three hours passed by, I will never know. But they did. Three hours of part accusations, part apologies, part nostalgia. Three hours of careful, accidental touching. Three hours of shutting the rest of the world out. Three hours of forgetting that this was a bar. We were meant to socialise. Not semi-make up. 

Three hours and we were apologising. We were cursing at fate. We were angry that so much time had gone to watse. Because those three hours put the truth out. Life played a dirty on us. Life took a year away from us. Three hours and we knew. That warm holds would be closing this night. That no way were we not ending the night on a high.

Three days and 160 text messages later, we were back. To the very thing that that had given fate the chance to tear us apart. The same question that racks my insides and jumbles my mind. Three days later and we still couldn't decide...or rather, you couldn't.

Four days later and we are back to the repeat scene of what always pre-marked my running. Me, screaming at you and doing everything in my power to anger you. How could you not see that if we lost this time, we were forever gone. How could you not see that this was the time to make the tough choices. How could you not see that when we are, life takes on an unsual explosiveness. How could you possibly still want to draw this out? How can I not see that again, here I am. Scared, again. Frustrated, again. Hurting, again.

I am a mess of emotions, thoughts and prayers.

I do not know exactly what it is I am seeking from God. I do know. I am seeking for my heart to ache in only the good ways. I am bargaining with heaven to give us a chance or find a way to forever separate us. I am begging all deities to speak sense into your stubborn self. And with all the self-control I can muster, I am staying away from the phone. Because we never stop. Because one text will lead to twenty more and then you just might drive over to my place. One touch and I'll be putty. Gullible and willing putty. And then I will be running. Because you frighten me. The intensity scares me. But right now, your downright foolishness is annoying me. 
I am going to the bar. Where we made up. I will get drunk on foreign-named cocktails then I will try to not call you.

One year later, and you are back.

Or are you?

Is this the final scene?