I have not written anything in months. Not a single line. Well, there was the 5 lines of a brief but recurrent conversation I have with Stella. They say we should let the dead rest but I seem to be failing terribly at that. Every night, for the last three months, there have been one, two, three, lined conversations with the girl that somehow managed to make it easy for me to breakdown. Not get on to drugs and their friends breakdowns, no. Cry, sob, brood, stop-trying-to-hold-it-together sort of breakdowns. I adore my friends but I can't seem to be able to be that way with any of them. Horrible pain, death on the outside...I'll meet them and pull on the smiling mask. I have tried but it's not happening. Not soon enough. So I rant at Stella...and when my mind is just too clogged like it was this morning, I write. Silly, text-like paragraphs that I hope she'll somehow read and maybe, just maybe, ask God to let a miracle happen...and hear her voice. Or have her show up at my bedside so I can...un-choke...
I didn't get a reply to my book-text of course. Not the conventional written back response anyway. But I got a response. And now for the first time in months I opened my blog and didn't turn away in...self-loathing for failing to do the one thing I am remotely good at. Self-loathe because I feel I am letting down the God that gave me this...gift. Self-hatred because I have NOT read any blogs, books or magazines- I could not stand any written thing because they all looked back at me in derision, they mocked me for being a failure. I read Els' blog because she's my bestie and somehow, her writing, even back in school, was the only one I always felt...un-alienated to. Maybe it' s because in my silly head, she's one of my soulmates and even at my worst-worst-est, there's always a...connection.
More on Stella's reply;
I love music. Mildred says I love melancholic music. I do. So in search for strength to get me through the day, I wrote to Stella first, then remembered that Plus One- the Gospel group always lifted me. Thanks to smartphones, I start to download some of their songs and this list of all their music shows up, I scroll to get "my" songs and right in the centre of this list is "Stay the same" by Joey McIntyre.
The connection with Stella?
That was "our" song. The song that got two, liitle (short is...disrespectful, people)...two little, volatile-tempered, fast-speaking, overflowing with pride and attitude but stuffed with...pain, that song made it easier. Pain brought on by first loves not going so smoothly, people who made it their business to poke, pinch, a school that made prison seem pretty attractive...That song was the one thing we could always quote to each other when life happened and our own words could not do. So I go "WTFH?" She answered my...filled-with-despair-and-I'm seriously-going-to-break-down-if-someone-does-not-find-me-fast message.
As soon as yesterday, as soon as the last three fucked up months.
The excitement was short lived though. No, I do not doubt that Stella actually looked down, turned to God and said,
"Listen. I know it's not Your way to do things that're not your perfect will, but my friend is gone. She's died a little more everyday. She's told Els, Tab, Sarah, Celia and Joel that she wasn't so okay but she didn't say how not okay. She's shut out every except You- who strangely are holding back from rescuing her and, me. And I get that this is your territory but that down there was part of my territory (aka, soul-mate) and You know well how stubborn, how strong-willed that...mateship...partnership was. I will not watch my friend wither away. I turned her world black once before and if she doesn't get...help, she's going to turn some few worlds dark. Soon. So, I'm going down. With or without You God, I'm reaching for Moe's heart, and soul, and mind. Not showing up physically...that quite can't happen but I'll...reach. I'll reach in a way she'll know for sure is me letting her know I listened. I never stopped. It might be after 6 years, but dammit Makuba, I never left you. Now listen to that song, fall apart all you want, then let's get you back to living.
And nope, you can't come be with me, Moe. Not yet. You will, you will. Just not yet. Live the life we'd mapped out. There's been too many changes, I know. Too many and too unhappy.
Stop stiffling, stop fighting, stop trying to not feel. It is okay to be in pain. It's okay to be without enthusiasm for...anything or...anyone. It's perfectly normal to want to run away. It's okay to...lose the fight in you. It's okay to...not want to fight for...friendships and relationships that you cherish so damn much because sometimes, the fight is what takes the warmth and fire out of them. It's okay not to want to...remind the people you care for of your presence...if they don't remember...it'll pinch but babe...you'll live. You will not be this person anymore. For you. For me. For the ones who...care. And you will remember that just because someone doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all of them.
You used to be brilliant, what's been going on, woman? Whom have you been hanging with? Shit will happen. But you can't go down any further Moe, you've sort of hit rock bottom. And we know how off tangent you can go. In your silly head, it's attractive but the plan was to leave the stage with applause ringing..not glitzy applause but to leave a few hearts glad they got to know you. But you're at the point where if you left now...there'd not be a lot of gladness. It is life. It can't not change. It can't be sunny and rosy all year round, it can't be clean and laugh-ey. But you can't change with each season.
Look where that's gotten us.
Now people are going to think you've actually lost it. Truth be told, they always thought so ;-).
Be brave Moe.
Start fighting for your dreams. Again. And again. And again. In the meantime, stay the same. Mwaahs. Mwaahs. Flowing love. For always."
That is my crazy mind's analysis of this morning's...happenings. Maybe it's silly that I think my friend spoke to me through a song...maybe I'll still be unhappy tomorrow. But it's not silly that my Android music app said "Stay the same" was from an album titled "Plus One". Maybe it's silly that I know of three people who like me, seek for solace in the arms of people who've left this world.
Maybe today is the day my mojo got back from vacation?
Who cares?
I have written for the first time in months and that feels...good enough. I'll question the strange journey my mind is taking on another day.
For the first time in weeks, I got a...sign that there is a light at the end of this dark tunnel. And sometimes, that's all you need. A sign- that life isn't over. That the fight is still on. That you lost some battles but you're not out.
That it's time.
To snap the heck out of depression. That it's not as easy as writing that last statement was. That there will be withdrawals and bad days, and sleepless nights but there'll also be smiles and love and hugs and Coke and...and friends...wonderful friends; the people who will not let you go down that easy. The people that will move mountains and do what it takes to shoo the darkness out of you. Even if it means reaching down from heaven and sending the message through a mobile phone mp3 down-loader.
I was at a dangerous low this morning and my 'Ella reached for me.
I have been at a dangerous low for months and my friends have been reaching for me, but with each reach, I've been slipping further away. Now, I'll let them hold my hand.
This is for the girls who have fought for me and my sanity over the last three months.
For the friends who have checked because they love and care and not because " You've been quiet/ lost Momo/ some chucking...blah fucking blah."
Yes. I am mad and hurt by everyone who's checked because I have not checked on them in a while. Maybe it's unreasonable but does it cross your mind that I need to be checked on? Once in a-three-months-while?
For Els who has...I can't find the words, and I just teared up, you osso. Thank you my love. For prying, then retreating, then prying again, then getting tough. Even if I avoided it all. Thank you for always fighting for me. In your silent, Google chat way. Thank you for not walking, even when the walls refuse to budge.
And Tab who loves me enough to have dreams of scarily-unhappy me. For reading my silence and disappearance better than anyone else I know or claims to know me. For fighting with me because I was shutting out everyone. For insisting that I talk. Even if that didn't happen, I love you. Because the first fight we ever had stemmed from you not willing to let me give up, but most of all, you not willing to let me fight alone.
For Sarah. My Mere..I heart you. For telling me to fight on my knees but being sensitive enough to not push it. For constantly checking on me even with just days left to bringing our little miracle to this world. For being my friend.
For Joel...Thank you Sunshine. For trying to see me, for checking, for letting me be. For that beautiful piece on the book group. I will make it up to you. All the cancelled dates. And you can choose what I'll wear. Pinky promise.
For Agnes and Betty, my spriritual mentors.
For God...who always finds a way in. With me, it's always been the same routine. Through my friends. My angels of friends.
For Stella. Who for the first time in 6 years, actually answered, and just on time. I miss you 'Ella. God, I miss you.
For me.
Because I wrote. Because I am giving myself permission to be happy. To stop trying to do it all. Because I don't know when/ if I'll write again. Because I know that what I can do, what I have, are not the only determinants of who I am. Because I read Mildred's blog. And ULK. Because it's been too long and too hard but I finally read other people's work. And got Google Reader on my phone.
To Android and smartphones, banaye!
Without them, this day would have gone and ended very differently. Badly differently.
To life. I am back.
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dreams. Show all posts
Friday, March 23, 2012
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Alive. Well. And Smiling.
It is weird how life can punch you so hard in the gut one day...and then elevate you to nearly-blacking-out joy the next day.
On some page in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Love In The Time of Cholera", a character who's been recently widowed points out( thinks...out?) how the people whom one loves should take their things with them when they die. I agree.
But in relation to the people who...leave or whom you leave. They should go with their memories, the shared moments, the feelings...they should all be taken too.
Because it's painful. It is sheer torture to be left with mind-refreshers of what was. It is simply too tedious to remain with memories that in my case, are being pushed out of my mind with each ounce of strength and self-will that I can summon.
When the good-byes have been said, the memory slate should be wiped clean. Because memories of what used to be don't exactly bring any sort of serenity or melancholic happiness. They make you sad. And achey. Then more sad. Then, mad.
At the universe.
At your creator.
And at yourself. Those moments when you're able to detatch yourself from emotion and think/ look at the situation realistically, you get angry at yourself for...being an idiot.
Then your heart-mind combo that you just insulted re-plays a memory; one of the nice ones and you stop questioning your intelligence.
You are only human.
It is okay.
You will be fine. Really. You will.
You move through the motions. Pain. Hurt. Numbness. Questioning of your mind's working processes. You spend two days trying to not let yourself get overwhelmed by all feelings nasty and negative.
Two days of working, friend-ing, family-ing and trying to NOT feel. Then you get convinced that you might have to deal with all this chaos for a longer while. It won't go away just because you are willing it to.
So you accept. And brace yourself for all those quirky mannerisms that really translate to you dealing. Furious reading, over-working, falling in even deeper love with your music collection. And, careful avoidance of friends. You will NOT talk about this.
Over my pile of ashes ( guess where I borrowed that from?)
Then as you finally allow the mess in, it...goes. Not totally, no.
You are aware that you've lost something you really and truly valued...but you also know that it would have drained you. If you had not let it go, it would have gone from happiness-bringing, care-receiving-and-giving, mushy-turning..it would have lost its entire beauty.
And then the memories of that...those would have been dark and ugly.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone has the right to decide who brings them the most happiness and to stay with that person.
And everyone should bloody know when to walk. When to let go. Or, try to let go.
Life can be harsh. And plain mean. And confusing.
But life always lets us choose.
So I made my choice. The choice that choked me for the past two days.
A choice that took someone I had grown to care for so deeply away from me.
I let go of the one person that I currently want around the most.
Because life gave me the situation. But I made the choice.
Sometimes, the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
Sometimes, separation brings clarity. The sort of clarity that togetherness doesn't really accord you. You look back and realize that you were playing risk games with your heart. You finally ask yourself, "Did I ever think of how this would end? Did I ever stop to ask myself if I honestly believed that maybe, just maybe, they would choose me? Really?"
I made my choice and spent close to three days bearing a great amount of pain. Then I decided to let myself face the pain, and asked God to hold me together. I was not going to break down. No.
Everyone deserves to choose whom they want to take their journey with.
And sometimes, you're the one who gets left behind. There's Meredith and Allison.
And you're one or the other.
You can't be both.
Almost three days of aching and you wake up with a song in your heart. You slept almost-quite-perfectly and you wake up minus the heaviness.
So you try to recall if you got intoxicated the night before. But you were home by 7pm.
Then you recall the prayer that was your last conscious thought before you slept off.
"Dear God, at the risk of sounding silly, I can't quite find any verse in your book that speaks to my current situation. No chapter on aching hearts and difficult goodbyes. But I know that you care. Even if I am currently furious at you. Please, please. Please, Lord, make me better. Hold me together. I miss smiling. I need the joy that surpasses and brings all understanding.
Please, God. Please. Hold me. Moe."
Also, there was the IM from your very wise friend that said something about God having a better and higher plan.
You tell your heart that's leaping to every dance-y song to cool it, too much of something can osso be bad. Be-gone, euphoria.
You calm down and tell yourself you'll face the day, second by second.
And you do. A few pangs. Several reminders. Way too much missing-ness. But way less aching.
And that's a good start.
Or, a good third day.
For Maux.
Because she smiled today. A lot.
On some page in Gabriel Garcia Marquez's "Love In The Time of Cholera", a character who's been recently widowed points out( thinks...out?) how the people whom one loves should take their things with them when they die. I agree.
But in relation to the people who...leave or whom you leave. They should go with their memories, the shared moments, the feelings...they should all be taken too.
Because it's painful. It is sheer torture to be left with mind-refreshers of what was. It is simply too tedious to remain with memories that in my case, are being pushed out of my mind with each ounce of strength and self-will that I can summon.
When the good-byes have been said, the memory slate should be wiped clean. Because memories of what used to be don't exactly bring any sort of serenity or melancholic happiness. They make you sad. And achey. Then more sad. Then, mad.
At the universe.
At your creator.
And at yourself. Those moments when you're able to detatch yourself from emotion and think/ look at the situation realistically, you get angry at yourself for...being an idiot.
Then your heart-mind combo that you just insulted re-plays a memory; one of the nice ones and you stop questioning your intelligence.
You are only human.
It is okay.
You will be fine. Really. You will.
You move through the motions. Pain. Hurt. Numbness. Questioning of your mind's working processes. You spend two days trying to not let yourself get overwhelmed by all feelings nasty and negative.
Two days of working, friend-ing, family-ing and trying to NOT feel. Then you get convinced that you might have to deal with all this chaos for a longer while. It won't go away just because you are willing it to.
So you accept. And brace yourself for all those quirky mannerisms that really translate to you dealing. Furious reading, over-working, falling in even deeper love with your music collection. And, careful avoidance of friends. You will NOT talk about this.
Over my pile of ashes ( guess where I borrowed that from?)
Then as you finally allow the mess in, it...goes. Not totally, no.
You are aware that you've lost something you really and truly valued...but you also know that it would have drained you. If you had not let it go, it would have gone from happiness-bringing, care-receiving-and-giving, mushy-turning..it would have lost its entire beauty.
And then the memories of that...those would have been dark and ugly.
Everyone deserves to be happy.
Everyone has the right to decide who brings them the most happiness and to stay with that person.
And everyone should bloody know when to walk. When to let go. Or, try to let go.
Life can be harsh. And plain mean. And confusing.
But life always lets us choose.
So I made my choice. The choice that choked me for the past two days.
A choice that took someone I had grown to care for so deeply away from me.
I let go of the one person that I currently want around the most.
Because life gave me the situation. But I made the choice.
Sometimes, the hardest thing and the right thing are the same.
Sometimes, separation brings clarity. The sort of clarity that togetherness doesn't really accord you. You look back and realize that you were playing risk games with your heart. You finally ask yourself, "Did I ever think of how this would end? Did I ever stop to ask myself if I honestly believed that maybe, just maybe, they would choose me? Really?"
I made my choice and spent close to three days bearing a great amount of pain. Then I decided to let myself face the pain, and asked God to hold me together. I was not going to break down. No.
Everyone deserves to choose whom they want to take their journey with.
And sometimes, you're the one who gets left behind. There's Meredith and Allison.
And you're one or the other.
You can't be both.
Almost three days of aching and you wake up with a song in your heart. You slept almost-quite-perfectly and you wake up minus the heaviness.
So you try to recall if you got intoxicated the night before. But you were home by 7pm.
Then you recall the prayer that was your last conscious thought before you slept off.
"Dear God, at the risk of sounding silly, I can't quite find any verse in your book that speaks to my current situation. No chapter on aching hearts and difficult goodbyes. But I know that you care. Even if I am currently furious at you. Please, please. Please, Lord, make me better. Hold me together. I miss smiling. I need the joy that surpasses and brings all understanding.
Please, God. Please. Hold me. Moe."
Also, there was the IM from your very wise friend that said something about God having a better and higher plan.
You tell your heart that's leaping to every dance-y song to cool it, too much of something can osso be bad. Be-gone, euphoria.
You calm down and tell yourself you'll face the day, second by second.
And you do. A few pangs. Several reminders. Way too much missing-ness. But way less aching.
And that's a good start.
Or, a good third day.
For Maux.
Because she smiled today. A lot.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
On the wrong side of right. I think.
Passion. Fate. Friendship. Depth. Intimacy.
Bloody, majorly sucky timimg.
Confused? Me too. Join the party.
Welcome to the elements that have conspired to make me giddy happy and indescribably sad at a go. No. The elememts that conspired against me and have slowly but surely and successfully managed to create a sad, achey albeit happy tale.
And the gods. You have to give it to them. At least, I do.
You win. I allow. You take the gold. For a chance at a beautiful and amazing...thing. For lack of a better word because"relationship" feels like I'm cheating. Lying to myself. Being stupidly and mouse-like blind.
FATE IS A WOMAN.
And when I finally do get to meet her, I will not kick or yell at her. I will bow down at her feet. Confess my boundless admiration for the bitch the bitch is/ can be. Then, I'll calmly ask to be her protege. Right after I have learnt all her sick, heart-breaking, dream-busting and happiness-busting tricks, I will throw her off her high and lofty throne, make her human and wreck malicious havoc on her life. I'll let her live long so till the day she dies, I can still mess her up.
Also, I will mess up other humans. I am a woman please. Fate shall just be my biggest project.
What do you do when you have to let someone go? Someone whose only crime is...perfection? Not angel-like, I've-neve-sinned-a-day-in-my-life sort of perfection.
No. Can anyone stand that?
I mean...someone who is a perfect fit to you? Quirks, perks, issues, inch-high temper, semi-craziness, major vulnerablity, sickness that seems to have picked the last three months to pay continous visits to your system...how do you come ladden with all this, and still find someone who without a doubt cares deeply for you?
How do you finally find friendship, support, laughter, brilliance that quite easily beats your own (which by the way, is major. Ahem.), and not be able to have it?
You convince yourself that all the people who could possibly get your outrageous mind are all taken or...dead...(RIP Mae West.)
You meet some of these people and you start to finally feel you belong. But what fate doesn't tell you is that, this person will get you. This person will go from being a make-work more interesting mate to...the person who for the first time in your entire dating/ flinging/ semi-love history that you will let yourself be vulnerable with. Not over flat tyres.
Over things you previously thought would either scare people away or not have their gravity understood. So you spend the day puking out your innards from the latest migraine attack, you spend the day with your dreams on the collapsing train because your work is not fun anymore, but tell your significant other you're fine.
Because you worry that telling him about the migraine from hell or the asthma attack from...out of the blue will scare him away...or that he'll give an arse-like answer to lost-job-love such as" at least you have a job...some people..."
I am NOT vying for sainthood. When I'm in the down and low zone, I don't want reminders of my luck at my being employed. I want support. And understanding. And attempts to make me smile. And practical help; point me in the direction of something that will make me love Public Relations again.
And then fate comes a-calling. She doesn't knock, the ill-mannered woman. She glides in. Un-noticed. One of only few females who don't love attention. She'll patch onto your shoulder and right when you think you've made another great friend, Fate telepath-messages Cupid...and the two busy-bodies proceed to entangle you in a twist so viciously calculated, you want to tell professors to revise calculus syllabi.
Fate and her friends create better and more complex puzzles and problems.
When you have spent your entire life masking your weaknesses, when you have been the first born that's not allowed to cry or make mistakes or be a child because well, you are a first born, when you have hidden the intensity of some of your illnesses from even your closest friends because you will not let them see you cry and turn red from horrible headaches...you get accustomed to that.
You become the perfect first born. The friend who tries to thoroughly love and protect all her friends and the daughter who makes her mama sunny-bright proud of her.
You forget with the years, how it feels like to cry. Over the breaking of your favourite CD. You forget how it feels to be weak and human because you don't know how your friends will react to you crying. Not at a funeral. But over a bad day, a love that wasn't love at all. A job that's starting to suffocate you.
You forget what it's like to be a woman. You click your heels and be witty and proceed to best-friend God.
But God doesn't text. Or hug-lift you off the ground. Or check on your currently skiddy health.
God doesn't make you feel things you last felt with the release of Twilight 1.
God doesn't make you smile silly, silly smiles all day, all week and not be scared to be thought cuckoo by your workmates.
God allows you to be vulnerable. He does.
In the dark of your bed room or in a quiet, peaceful chapel.
But then, you have spent the last 20+ years suffering from the God-complex. You are tired of closed-room break downs. You are fed up with being damn strong. You're done masking throbbing migraines because you don't want to be the party pooper and have dates and friends leave early.
You're done.
So you slowly let in this person. You breed a monster as you let your usually stoic self show sides to you not even your closest friends have seen. You become a pile of major, jelly-like mush and somehow, somehow you're not self-conscious, or mentally dissing yourself for being...that way.
You're being silly but happy. You're caring about someone but you're being cared for as well. Sometimes, even more. You're excited but you're also calm. Because unlike most of your past closeness-building scenarios, this one has a great deal of solid about it. So even when for whatever reason you go a day without talking, you don't spend hours analysing all the possible ways you could have screwed up and gotten un-attractive over night.
You try to be a better person because you are imperfect and sometimes hurt and annoy this person but you're not scared of screwing up.
Because while said person doesn't take your...errr...crap, they also don't de-mean you in an attempt at bringing maturity into your sometimes childish self.
This is when Fate sweeps in and does a number on you. A major, number that leaves you up at 3am listening to Christina Perri and telling your heart that heart ache and loss are around the corner, she'd better get prepared (at least this time you saw it coming), you try to mentally prepare for the time when this person has to be set free, you tell yourself that God, the universe, has a better person in store.
But this is as better as it gets. I think.
Fate leads you to an amazing being of a man. And then Fate says you can't have him.
You smile but are ambushed by constant, subtle and sometimes loud reminders that this has a shelf-life. You attempt to cry but wah. Nada. Tears deserted you ages ago.
All you have are your words. Even those somehow fail you for weeks on end.
So you give up the battle to get answers from deities and gods who play let's screw-up-unsuspecting-humans games for fun. You convince yourself that the person in store for you will rock majorly more than this.
But you also can't help thinking..."What if I'm one of those people? what if the rest of my life is going to be a movie sound-tracked by Hinder's Lips of an angel?
Just, what if...this is as close as I get to almost.....(GULP) falling in love?
The real deal?"
Because while you're quite happy with what you have, you're not brave enough to fall all the way.
Some wounds never quite heal.
Some scars never quite fade away.
The break from such a fall would leave some massive injuries. And tell-tale scars.
You sit at your work desk and pour your emotional mess onto your blog because you do not want to even think of talking to any of your friends about this.
Not because they're not amazing friends or because they will judge you and be cynical.
They will hug you, and check on you every 5 minutes, but most of all, they will see you vulnerable.
And you don't do vulnerable well. Well...with some people, you actually do.
So you stop youself from fearing the future. You know you will be okay. Somehow.
You have horrible days and lonely, scared nights because you know you're the running sort who's not above sending a 4am "I can't do this anymore" text.
Because you do want to do this.
You make peace with the fact that, a good number of years from now, you will be happily married and mothering some beautiful children but might occassionally think of this person.
And what could have been.
Then you'll sit your children down and tell them of life's real issues. Not Harvard graduates whom they should emulate or your success which they should strive to achive.
The real problems, the real issues, are the ones you're never prepared for.
And the worst of the lot are the ones that come coated with bitter-sweet icing.
The ones that come bearing inexplicable complexities and make you question your creator. And His sometimes not-funny-way of doing things.
The real problems are the ones where smiles and aches quite easily go together.
And bear equal intensity.
Also, and most of all, you thank God and the universe.
Even you, Fate. Eh? You rightfully deserve a mention.
You thank the powers that run this universe for all things deep, tender, sweet, mushy, strong, caring, brilliant.
You thank them for wrapping this in 6'1 feet of darkness and awesomeness.
Then you post this. And go home. To lonely thoughts. And Christina Perri.
For...
You know yourself.
And to my friends; I shall not be taking or answering any questions.
This time, let me be.
Please.
Especially you, Yasmin. (that is said with love.)
Moe.
Bloody, majorly sucky timimg.
Confused? Me too. Join the party.
Welcome to the elements that have conspired to make me giddy happy and indescribably sad at a go. No. The elememts that conspired against me and have slowly but surely and successfully managed to create a sad, achey albeit happy tale.
And the gods. You have to give it to them. At least, I do.
You win. I allow. You take the gold. For a chance at a beautiful and amazing...thing. For lack of a better word because"relationship" feels like I'm cheating. Lying to myself. Being stupidly and mouse-like blind.
FATE IS A WOMAN.
And when I finally do get to meet her, I will not kick or yell at her. I will bow down at her feet. Confess my boundless admiration for the bitch the bitch is/ can be. Then, I'll calmly ask to be her protege. Right after I have learnt all her sick, heart-breaking, dream-busting and happiness-busting tricks, I will throw her off her high and lofty throne, make her human and wreck malicious havoc on her life. I'll let her live long so till the day she dies, I can still mess her up.
Also, I will mess up other humans. I am a woman please. Fate shall just be my biggest project.
What do you do when you have to let someone go? Someone whose only crime is...perfection? Not angel-like, I've-neve-sinned-a-day-in-my-life sort of perfection.
No. Can anyone stand that?
I mean...someone who is a perfect fit to you? Quirks, perks, issues, inch-high temper, semi-craziness, major vulnerablity, sickness that seems to have picked the last three months to pay continous visits to your system...how do you come ladden with all this, and still find someone who without a doubt cares deeply for you?
How do you finally find friendship, support, laughter, brilliance that quite easily beats your own (which by the way, is major. Ahem.), and not be able to have it?
You convince yourself that all the people who could possibly get your outrageous mind are all taken or...dead...(RIP Mae West.)
You meet some of these people and you start to finally feel you belong. But what fate doesn't tell you is that, this person will get you. This person will go from being a make-work more interesting mate to...the person who for the first time in your entire dating/ flinging/ semi-love history that you will let yourself be vulnerable with. Not over flat tyres.
Over things you previously thought would either scare people away or not have their gravity understood. So you spend the day puking out your innards from the latest migraine attack, you spend the day with your dreams on the collapsing train because your work is not fun anymore, but tell your significant other you're fine.
Because you worry that telling him about the migraine from hell or the asthma attack from...out of the blue will scare him away...or that he'll give an arse-like answer to lost-job-love such as" at least you have a job...some people..."
I am NOT vying for sainthood. When I'm in the down and low zone, I don't want reminders of my luck at my being employed. I want support. And understanding. And attempts to make me smile. And practical help; point me in the direction of something that will make me love Public Relations again.
And then fate comes a-calling. She doesn't knock, the ill-mannered woman. She glides in. Un-noticed. One of only few females who don't love attention. She'll patch onto your shoulder and right when you think you've made another great friend, Fate telepath-messages Cupid...and the two busy-bodies proceed to entangle you in a twist so viciously calculated, you want to tell professors to revise calculus syllabi.
Fate and her friends create better and more complex puzzles and problems.
When you have spent your entire life masking your weaknesses, when you have been the first born that's not allowed to cry or make mistakes or be a child because well, you are a first born, when you have hidden the intensity of some of your illnesses from even your closest friends because you will not let them see you cry and turn red from horrible headaches...you get accustomed to that.
You become the perfect first born. The friend who tries to thoroughly love and protect all her friends and the daughter who makes her mama sunny-bright proud of her.
You forget with the years, how it feels like to cry. Over the breaking of your favourite CD. You forget how it feels to be weak and human because you don't know how your friends will react to you crying. Not at a funeral. But over a bad day, a love that wasn't love at all. A job that's starting to suffocate you.
You forget what it's like to be a woman. You click your heels and be witty and proceed to best-friend God.
But God doesn't text. Or hug-lift you off the ground. Or check on your currently skiddy health.
God doesn't make you feel things you last felt with the release of Twilight 1.
God doesn't make you smile silly, silly smiles all day, all week and not be scared to be thought cuckoo by your workmates.
God allows you to be vulnerable. He does.
In the dark of your bed room or in a quiet, peaceful chapel.
But then, you have spent the last 20+ years suffering from the God-complex. You are tired of closed-room break downs. You are fed up with being damn strong. You're done masking throbbing migraines because you don't want to be the party pooper and have dates and friends leave early.
You're done.
So you slowly let in this person. You breed a monster as you let your usually stoic self show sides to you not even your closest friends have seen. You become a pile of major, jelly-like mush and somehow, somehow you're not self-conscious, or mentally dissing yourself for being...that way.
You're being silly but happy. You're caring about someone but you're being cared for as well. Sometimes, even more. You're excited but you're also calm. Because unlike most of your past closeness-building scenarios, this one has a great deal of solid about it. So even when for whatever reason you go a day without talking, you don't spend hours analysing all the possible ways you could have screwed up and gotten un-attractive over night.
You try to be a better person because you are imperfect and sometimes hurt and annoy this person but you're not scared of screwing up.
Because while said person doesn't take your...errr...crap, they also don't de-mean you in an attempt at bringing maturity into your sometimes childish self.
This is when Fate sweeps in and does a number on you. A major, number that leaves you up at 3am listening to Christina Perri and telling your heart that heart ache and loss are around the corner, she'd better get prepared (at least this time you saw it coming), you try to mentally prepare for the time when this person has to be set free, you tell yourself that God, the universe, has a better person in store.
But this is as better as it gets. I think.
Fate leads you to an amazing being of a man. And then Fate says you can't have him.
You smile but are ambushed by constant, subtle and sometimes loud reminders that this has a shelf-life. You attempt to cry but wah. Nada. Tears deserted you ages ago.
All you have are your words. Even those somehow fail you for weeks on end.
So you give up the battle to get answers from deities and gods who play let's screw-up-unsuspecting-humans games for fun. You convince yourself that the person in store for you will rock majorly more than this.
But you also can't help thinking..."What if I'm one of those people? what if the rest of my life is going to be a movie sound-tracked by Hinder's Lips of an angel?
Just, what if...this is as close as I get to almost.....(GULP) falling in love?
The real deal?"
Because while you're quite happy with what you have, you're not brave enough to fall all the way.
Some wounds never quite heal.
Some scars never quite fade away.
The break from such a fall would leave some massive injuries. And tell-tale scars.
You sit at your work desk and pour your emotional mess onto your blog because you do not want to even think of talking to any of your friends about this.
Not because they're not amazing friends or because they will judge you and be cynical.
They will hug you, and check on you every 5 minutes, but most of all, they will see you vulnerable.
And you don't do vulnerable well. Well...with some people, you actually do.
So you stop youself from fearing the future. You know you will be okay. Somehow.
You have horrible days and lonely, scared nights because you know you're the running sort who's not above sending a 4am "I can't do this anymore" text.
Because you do want to do this.
You make peace with the fact that, a good number of years from now, you will be happily married and mothering some beautiful children but might occassionally think of this person.
And what could have been.
Then you'll sit your children down and tell them of life's real issues. Not Harvard graduates whom they should emulate or your success which they should strive to achive.
The real problems, the real issues, are the ones you're never prepared for.
And the worst of the lot are the ones that come coated with bitter-sweet icing.
The ones that come bearing inexplicable complexities and make you question your creator. And His sometimes not-funny-way of doing things.
The real problems are the ones where smiles and aches quite easily go together.
And bear equal intensity.
Also, and most of all, you thank God and the universe.
Even you, Fate. Eh? You rightfully deserve a mention.
You thank the powers that run this universe for all things deep, tender, sweet, mushy, strong, caring, brilliant.
You thank them for wrapping this in 6'1 feet of darkness and awesomeness.
Then you post this. And go home. To lonely thoughts. And Christina Perri.
For...
You know yourself.
And to my friends; I shall not be taking or answering any questions.
This time, let me be.
Please.
Especially you, Yasmin. (that is said with love.)
Moe.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Hold me. Embrace me. Intoxicate me...; On Support Systems.
I am a deeply stoic being. But I am also a vulnerable woman.
The trials, the life-punches-the first-bornism, the-never ending appearance of pain, hurt, disappointment and inhumanity have made me stoic. What are you going to do when the would-be-love-of-your-life is already taken?
She is lucky, the one that got him first. In the next life, not only will I beat her to him, I will get into and fill his entire system until kryptonite begs to be re-defined.
I met a man I like. Really like. Except this man was a surprise-like. Here I was, trying to forget Mr.-But-are-you-back-for-good-or-not-out of my life or into it?( It is complicated. Very. Extremely), and he appears.
Not a single romantic or lusty thought towards that man. None. Just total admiration for the brilliance that he is.
P.S- Did I mention that brilliant, brilliant and gifted men do hazardous things to my system? I am sorry, Mr. Pretty-as-a-pin. Brains. Not chiseled jaws.
There was a time in my life not so far back, when everything seemed to be falling apart. My dreams were draining the life out of me, the man who never leaves me had just made a re-appearance, the corporate world was showing its ass-holey side; brilliance, not-so-bad-looks and talent don't get you up the corporate ladder. They get you on the wrong side of the dumb, ugly, unflattering-walking and flat behind-ed bitch who has mastered the art of spotting betterness a mile away, and smothering it.
Don't smirk too long, witch. I am gifted. The gods favoured me. And the hips help.
Two years, and I will be bringing the Blair Waldorf in me to life. I'll make Waldorf seem like a very, very, bad amateur. And God, will I B.Y.A.T.C.H.. .
Oh, you didn't know? I don't forgive and forget. I remember. And plan. And stick my heel into your heart.
I can hardly wait.
The world is such that even the we who consider ourselves strong and hardened and able-to-face-anything, we the ones who will smile when every bit of ourselves is crumbling apart, the world is made in a way that even we, we fall.
Hard. Bad. We swerve off course so suddenly and at such full speed, that no one sees it coming. When people like me hit rock bottom, it is NOT rock bottom. It is the part beneath the layer underneath the section that holds the parts that support rock bottom.
It is horrific. You watch yourself fall apart daily, you watch your self intoxicate with substances you know for a fact will not make things better, you turn off your phones, go to the bar and further self-destruct. You laugh and dance with your friends and hope, pray, that one-just one friend will glimpse the death that now resides in your eyes but your friends do not. Not because they don't care, but because you, the perfect actress has learnt to layer the death in her eyes with the light she wants the world to see.
And light, they will see.
Until one of them approaches dangerous territory. And asks. "Are you okay?"
And the ego-ess that you have bred so well jumps to attention, to declare how you've never been better...but somehow the heart, that precious thing you have silenced for so long, with one last effort, shuts Miss Ego up and says," No, I am not okay. I have not been okay in months. And I am perilously close to falling off the edge. No, Sarah, I am not okay."
Ladies and gentlemen, I am a masker. My pain and hurt discovered they are happier hiding in gin bottles. Not friends' shoulders. But pain and hurt didn't count on Sarah Nsubuga. My recently-found soul mate(yes, the relationship was rushed. Feelings do those things to you.)
So, this post is to thank the women who have held me up for the last four months of my life. Women who have IM-d me, texted me, cancelled appointments to speak sense and encouragement into me, women who have gotten me intoxicated because at the time, that is ALL I wanted. And women who have and still are slowly, but surely leading me back to God.
Acan Sara and Kahunde Lauryne.
My big sisters. Who get me fed, then totally drunk. We talk men,and life, and work and God...and Faith. We dance to Mark Morrison and whomever old school musician that Steak Out decides to play at rock night.
I feel for those two bar men who always serve us. We have scandalized them to levels I dare not analyse.
But I really don't care if their prim& poor-service selves have been open to conversations strictly-meant-for-bridal-showers.
I have had two of the world's best biggest sisters with me during some of the crappiest moments of this year.
The bar men shall live.
Akiiki Tuhaise.
Thank you Akiiki, for cooking me the most delicious meals....and concocting those deliriously-mind-altering cocktails while I lazily watch your TV.
Thank you for letting me feel secure in the knowledge that I am not alone-in my ability to beef, block out people and not feel a thing about it. Banange, that helped. The thought that I was the only being capable of such hardness was not so light a burden.
Now there is me, and you and all those intoxicants.
I heart you immensely, Akiiki.
For giving this first born the chance to be baby-ied.
Bisous.
Aimle Caroline and Melanie Kaita.
Two best friends who couldn't possibly be any more different.
Two brilliant, brilliant, gifted and crazy women.
Two women who love the LORD so much and who have subtlety, sarcastically, mercilessly, relentlessly and effort-fully led me back to God.
Most things in life happen for a reason. Meeting these women was one of them. Out of what would have otherwise been a disastrous situation, came the relentless push to pursue my dreams. The real ones. Not the ones the world I thought I should pursue.
At a time when walls were crumbling and life-long securities were losing their sheltering abilities, came in these two women. Armed with the strength of battalions and the energy of the Red Bull making factory. I swear.
Giving me books to read, showing me how to pray, praying with me, re-minding me of who I really am.
Minus the heels, and lipstick and wit.
I am my father's child. And for this year, this has been the greatest reminder.
Mela. Carol.
Thank you. For not taking my insecurities and worries and fears lightly. For knowing about the horrors that plague my life but still looking at me through un-tainted eyes. For laughing, scolding and teaching. For constantly checking on me.
For being my friends.
Sarah Nsubuga Senyonyi
My Mere to me-Yang.
That is from Grey's anatomy. Sarah is happily married so I had to find a spot that hadn't been taken yet. He is the love of her life.
I am her soul mate. Shared love of all things meaty, a bit of snobbishness, deep love for well-written books and the friendly-but-serious competition to be Maya Angelou in the next life. Or meet her first in this one.
Have I mentioned that she cooks like a charm?( Lucky love of her life)
Sarah and I have one of those unexpected friendships.
But the things I tell this woman....are things I have failed to tell some of my longest-lasting friends.
Maybe it helps that she sits next to me( We work for the same company), or maybe it's because, unlike the rest of the world that sees me in heels and passes judgement, she sees me in heels, lipstick, singing to weird rock music and still looks at the woman behind it.
For a Christian woman to know my flaws, my recurring mistakes, my erroneous decisions but still support me unconditionally, rub the injuries when once again, I shoot myself in the foot and to believe in me enough- to encourage me to take the paths that will better me, reward me and give life back to my passion.
For a woman of high such high and unshakable principles, to know the dirty on me, and still be my Meredith-loving, unassuming, and tough when necessary, I can only say....Thank you, O so very much.
I love You.
And I promise not to show up at your bedroom door, semi-depressed and ask Mr. to push over, or go to the couch. ;-)
My control systems, my sanity re-storers, my red-coloured hair and Joshua Radin addicted guardians, my party sisters...Thank You.
Without you, rehab for me might be a very real possibility right now.
Love. Love. And, more Love.
"I have been alone, when I am surrounded by friends,
how could the silence be so loud???
But I still go on-knowing that I have got you...."
"Ave Maria"
Beyonce Knowles.
The trials, the life-punches-the first-bornism, the-never ending appearance of pain, hurt, disappointment and inhumanity have made me stoic. What are you going to do when the would-be-love-of-your-life is already taken?
She is lucky, the one that got him first. In the next life, not only will I beat her to him, I will get into and fill his entire system until kryptonite begs to be re-defined.
I met a man I like. Really like. Except this man was a surprise-like. Here I was, trying to forget Mr.-But-are-you-back-for-good-or-not-out of my life or into it?( It is complicated. Very. Extremely), and he appears.
Not a single romantic or lusty thought towards that man. None. Just total admiration for the brilliance that he is.
P.S- Did I mention that brilliant, brilliant and gifted men do hazardous things to my system? I am sorry, Mr. Pretty-as-a-pin. Brains. Not chiseled jaws.
There was a time in my life not so far back, when everything seemed to be falling apart. My dreams were draining the life out of me, the man who never leaves me had just made a re-appearance, the corporate world was showing its ass-holey side; brilliance, not-so-bad-looks and talent don't get you up the corporate ladder. They get you on the wrong side of the dumb, ugly, unflattering-walking and flat behind-ed bitch who has mastered the art of spotting betterness a mile away, and smothering it.
Don't smirk too long, witch. I am gifted. The gods favoured me. And the hips help.
Two years, and I will be bringing the Blair Waldorf in me to life. I'll make Waldorf seem like a very, very, bad amateur. And God, will I B.Y.A.T.C.H.. .
Oh, you didn't know? I don't forgive and forget. I remember. And plan. And stick my heel into your heart.
I can hardly wait.
The world is such that even the we who consider ourselves strong and hardened and able-to-face-anything, we the ones who will smile when every bit of ourselves is crumbling apart, the world is made in a way that even we, we fall.
Hard. Bad. We swerve off course so suddenly and at such full speed, that no one sees it coming. When people like me hit rock bottom, it is NOT rock bottom. It is the part beneath the layer underneath the section that holds the parts that support rock bottom.
It is horrific. You watch yourself fall apart daily, you watch your self intoxicate with substances you know for a fact will not make things better, you turn off your phones, go to the bar and further self-destruct. You laugh and dance with your friends and hope, pray, that one-just one friend will glimpse the death that now resides in your eyes but your friends do not. Not because they don't care, but because you, the perfect actress has learnt to layer the death in her eyes with the light she wants the world to see.
And light, they will see.
Until one of them approaches dangerous territory. And asks. "Are you okay?"
And the ego-ess that you have bred so well jumps to attention, to declare how you've never been better...but somehow the heart, that precious thing you have silenced for so long, with one last effort, shuts Miss Ego up and says," No, I am not okay. I have not been okay in months. And I am perilously close to falling off the edge. No, Sarah, I am not okay."
Ladies and gentlemen, I am a masker. My pain and hurt discovered they are happier hiding in gin bottles. Not friends' shoulders. But pain and hurt didn't count on Sarah Nsubuga. My recently-found soul mate(yes, the relationship was rushed. Feelings do those things to you.)
So, this post is to thank the women who have held me up for the last four months of my life. Women who have IM-d me, texted me, cancelled appointments to speak sense and encouragement into me, women who have gotten me intoxicated because at the time, that is ALL I wanted. And women who have and still are slowly, but surely leading me back to God.
Acan Sara and Kahunde Lauryne.
My big sisters. Who get me fed, then totally drunk. We talk men,and life, and work and God...and Faith. We dance to Mark Morrison and whomever old school musician that Steak Out decides to play at rock night.
I feel for those two bar men who always serve us. We have scandalized them to levels I dare not analyse.
But I really don't care if their prim& poor-service selves have been open to conversations strictly-meant-for-bridal-showers.
I have had two of the world's best biggest sisters with me during some of the crappiest moments of this year.
The bar men shall live.
Akiiki Tuhaise.
Thank you Akiiki, for cooking me the most delicious meals....and concocting those deliriously-mind-altering cocktails while I lazily watch your TV.
Thank you for letting me feel secure in the knowledge that I am not alone-in my ability to beef, block out people and not feel a thing about it. Banange, that helped. The thought that I was the only being capable of such hardness was not so light a burden.
Now there is me, and you and all those intoxicants.
I heart you immensely, Akiiki.
For giving this first born the chance to be baby-ied.
Bisous.
Aimle Caroline and Melanie Kaita.
Two best friends who couldn't possibly be any more different.
Two brilliant, brilliant, gifted and crazy women.
Two women who love the LORD so much and who have subtlety, sarcastically, mercilessly, relentlessly and effort-fully led me back to God.
Most things in life happen for a reason. Meeting these women was one of them. Out of what would have otherwise been a disastrous situation, came the relentless push to pursue my dreams. The real ones. Not the ones the world I thought I should pursue.
At a time when walls were crumbling and life-long securities were losing their sheltering abilities, came in these two women. Armed with the strength of battalions and the energy of the Red Bull making factory. I swear.
Giving me books to read, showing me how to pray, praying with me, re-minding me of who I really am.
Minus the heels, and lipstick and wit.
I am my father's child. And for this year, this has been the greatest reminder.
Mela. Carol.
Thank you. For not taking my insecurities and worries and fears lightly. For knowing about the horrors that plague my life but still looking at me through un-tainted eyes. For laughing, scolding and teaching. For constantly checking on me.
For being my friends.
Sarah Nsubuga Senyonyi
My Mere to me-Yang.
That is from Grey's anatomy. Sarah is happily married so I had to find a spot that hadn't been taken yet. He is the love of her life.
I am her soul mate. Shared love of all things meaty, a bit of snobbishness, deep love for well-written books and the friendly-but-serious competition to be Maya Angelou in the next life. Or meet her first in this one.
Have I mentioned that she cooks like a charm?( Lucky love of her life)
Sarah and I have one of those unexpected friendships.
But the things I tell this woman....are things I have failed to tell some of my longest-lasting friends.
Maybe it helps that she sits next to me( We work for the same company), or maybe it's because, unlike the rest of the world that sees me in heels and passes judgement, she sees me in heels, lipstick, singing to weird rock music and still looks at the woman behind it.
For a Christian woman to know my flaws, my recurring mistakes, my erroneous decisions but still support me unconditionally, rub the injuries when once again, I shoot myself in the foot and to believe in me enough- to encourage me to take the paths that will better me, reward me and give life back to my passion.
For a woman of high such high and unshakable principles, to know the dirty on me, and still be my Meredith-loving, unassuming, and tough when necessary, I can only say....Thank you, O so very much.
I love You.
And I promise not to show up at your bedroom door, semi-depressed and ask Mr. to push over, or go to the couch. ;-)
My control systems, my sanity re-storers, my red-coloured hair and Joshua Radin addicted guardians, my party sisters...Thank You.
Without you, rehab for me might be a very real possibility right now.
Love. Love. And, more Love.
"I have been alone, when I am surrounded by friends,
how could the silence be so loud???
But I still go on-knowing that I have got you...."
"Ave Maria"
Beyonce Knowles.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Dear October (Wake Me Up When September Ends)
"Wake me up when September ends." Title of a song by Green Day. A rock band I sort of like. Good music.
That song, was my mantra towards the end of the A-level part of my high school. It is just so...sad. Nothing particularly gut-wrenching sad in the lyrics, but sad. That sad that creeps up on you, finds a comfortable corner in the centre of your already-bruised heart and curls it's lukewarm self in there. The sort of sad which doesn't have you doubling over in inexplicable pain. No.
The sort of sad Meredith faces when she asks McDreamy to choose her over Allison. And he doesn't.
The sad that does not prod or pinch, this sad is maddeningly polite. It just settles over you in a manner so complete and total...and subtle but entirely felt...it clouds and doesn't bring forth tears.
But sighs, yes. Deep, inner sighs that take the life in you and....make it one huge, burden of a sigh. This sadness doesn't present in form of wails, no. It has the ability to hide behind a good number of cocktails or a good book.
Then the morning comes. And the movie ends. And the book runs out of words.
September was bad. September was slow. Tediously slow. September was horrible. September brought no creativity, zilch inspiration and plenty melancholy. September was cold, and rainy. And awesomely ass-holey.
I fought dread. Yes, most of the past 30 days were filled with dread. Of the unknown. The horrible fear that doom and gloom were in the neighbourhood. I prayed.
Dear Lord, I prayed. And prayed. And run to Melanie. And Sara. And we prayed. But doom and gloom were just happy keeping around me.
So, in that manner of easy vulgarity I had mastered in my O-Level, I flipped them off. I flipped gloom, doom, despair, writer's block, inability to read any of the several amazing books that stood by my bed side.
I flipped them all, called their fucking bluff and told them I would be just fine.
At the right time. The fight to be gleeful and joyous...do you get the irony in that phrase? "The fight to be gleeful and joyous...?" We are NOT meant to fight for joy. We fight to recover our waspy waist lines after child birth. We DO NOT FIGHT FOR JOY.
Screw Eve and her lack of self-control. A fruit? Come on.
Screw death. Death that went and took the mommy of 6 beautiful, intelligent babies.
Death that took away the mommy of my insanely gifted friend.
Fuck death that attempted to break the spirit of a vibrant, spiritual and God-loving man.
Screw death that made us sit in that church and try especially hard not to curse the God that is supposedly harboured in it.
Fuck death for reminding us all of our immortality. Our fragility. Our short spanned life times.
Fucking screw death for the unwanted, unnecessary and uncalled for reminder that, we are on borrowed time.
You gotta give it to death. We plan. And dream. And hope.
While the arse snickers. And then grabs. Steals. Tears apart.
We, the word bearers, we the writers, the grammatically and lyrically gifted. We who somehow manage to convey any message with a couple of well articulated paragraphs. We who always have the sharpest responses to the queries, errors and ineptitude of others. We...who make our living from stringing words together.
We were helpless. And speechless.
I sat with some of the most gifted writers in this town and all we could do was hold hands. And lean on shoulders. And cry. Silent, endless streams of tears as we watched the hearts of our friend and her family get ripped out.
Let me tell you about grief. The words to describe it have not been invented yet. You pray, and hope that you are dreaming. Or, night-maring. That you will wake up. That you will hug your broken friend and drain the hurt from her soul.
That she will stop crying, because you are getting bloody teary-eyed and she doesn't need you crying.
You want to hold her head on your laps and try to soothe away the pain you know without a doubt, will never really go away.
Our mommies are supposed to be with us forever. Oh, we scream at them, and yell, and bang doors in their faces and try to explain our excessive love of alcohol to them, but our mommies are not supposed to die.
Because our mommies are the rocks, the walls, the cooks, the doctors, the cleaners, the huggers, the embarrassing ululaters when our names are called out on graduation.
Our mommies are the grandmothers of our unborn babies. Our mommies should see us first dance with our husbands on our wedding days. They are supposed to tell you why your colour schemes are "too much" or why you do not need a wedding planner, "you lazy children of these days" and guilt you into inviting all their friends to the wedding.
And then break into sobs as she watches her gorgeous girl redefine bridal dazzle(ness.)
My mommy is supposed to walk me down the aisle. Because while she has broken my heart in various and callous ways, she is my mommy.
Mommies are our angels. They are not meant to have a shelf-life.
Dear October.
Today is my brother's birthday. Arnold is my favourite man. He is growing into the man that will make God change His mind about annihilating all male species.
Dear October, come laden with blessings. And joy. And inspiration. And friends. And love.
September took the life out of us.
I came close to self-destruction.
I do not know how my usually perceptive friends were not able to see it.
The alcohol I was drowning in wasn't meant for recreational purposes at all.
The intention was to forget. But I couldn't. You cannot forget the despair that resides in the depths of your soul.
I lost alot of me to September. Creativity. Love-that came a tad too late, joy, passion, hope, sleep.
I lost the will to be alive. September. You hit me hard.
October...
I am a recovering life -and-it's stupid happenings-patient.
Be gentle.
On us all.
Rest In Perfect Peace, Mildred's mama.
"Wake Me Up When September Ends"
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
summer has come and passed
the innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
ring out the bells again
like we did when spring began
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
twenty years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
Green Day.
That song, was my mantra towards the end of the A-level part of my high school. It is just so...sad. Nothing particularly gut-wrenching sad in the lyrics, but sad. That sad that creeps up on you, finds a comfortable corner in the centre of your already-bruised heart and curls it's lukewarm self in there. The sort of sad which doesn't have you doubling over in inexplicable pain. No.
The sort of sad Meredith faces when she asks McDreamy to choose her over Allison. And he doesn't.
The sad that does not prod or pinch, this sad is maddeningly polite. It just settles over you in a manner so complete and total...and subtle but entirely felt...it clouds and doesn't bring forth tears.
But sighs, yes. Deep, inner sighs that take the life in you and....make it one huge, burden of a sigh. This sadness doesn't present in form of wails, no. It has the ability to hide behind a good number of cocktails or a good book.
Then the morning comes. And the movie ends. And the book runs out of words.
September was bad. September was slow. Tediously slow. September was horrible. September brought no creativity, zilch inspiration and plenty melancholy. September was cold, and rainy. And awesomely ass-holey.
I fought dread. Yes, most of the past 30 days were filled with dread. Of the unknown. The horrible fear that doom and gloom were in the neighbourhood. I prayed.
Dear Lord, I prayed. And prayed. And run to Melanie. And Sara. And we prayed. But doom and gloom were just happy keeping around me.
So, in that manner of easy vulgarity I had mastered in my O-Level, I flipped them off. I flipped gloom, doom, despair, writer's block, inability to read any of the several amazing books that stood by my bed side.
I flipped them all, called their fucking bluff and told them I would be just fine.
At the right time. The fight to be gleeful and joyous...do you get the irony in that phrase? "The fight to be gleeful and joyous...?" We are NOT meant to fight for joy. We fight to recover our waspy waist lines after child birth. We DO NOT FIGHT FOR JOY.
Screw Eve and her lack of self-control. A fruit? Come on.
Screw death. Death that went and took the mommy of 6 beautiful, intelligent babies.
Death that took away the mommy of my insanely gifted friend.
Fuck death that attempted to break the spirit of a vibrant, spiritual and God-loving man.
Screw death that made us sit in that church and try especially hard not to curse the God that is supposedly harboured in it.
Fuck death for reminding us all of our immortality. Our fragility. Our short spanned life times.
Fucking screw death for the unwanted, unnecessary and uncalled for reminder that, we are on borrowed time.
You gotta give it to death. We plan. And dream. And hope.
While the arse snickers. And then grabs. Steals. Tears apart.
We, the word bearers, we the writers, the grammatically and lyrically gifted. We who somehow manage to convey any message with a couple of well articulated paragraphs. We who always have the sharpest responses to the queries, errors and ineptitude of others. We...who make our living from stringing words together.
We were helpless. And speechless.
I sat with some of the most gifted writers in this town and all we could do was hold hands. And lean on shoulders. And cry. Silent, endless streams of tears as we watched the hearts of our friend and her family get ripped out.
Let me tell you about grief. The words to describe it have not been invented yet. You pray, and hope that you are dreaming. Or, night-maring. That you will wake up. That you will hug your broken friend and drain the hurt from her soul.
That she will stop crying, because you are getting bloody teary-eyed and she doesn't need you crying.
You want to hold her head on your laps and try to soothe away the pain you know without a doubt, will never really go away.
Our mommies are supposed to be with us forever. Oh, we scream at them, and yell, and bang doors in their faces and try to explain our excessive love of alcohol to them, but our mommies are not supposed to die.
Because our mommies are the rocks, the walls, the cooks, the doctors, the cleaners, the huggers, the embarrassing ululaters when our names are called out on graduation.
Our mommies are the grandmothers of our unborn babies. Our mommies should see us first dance with our husbands on our wedding days. They are supposed to tell you why your colour schemes are "too much" or why you do not need a wedding planner, "you lazy children of these days" and guilt you into inviting all their friends to the wedding.
And then break into sobs as she watches her gorgeous girl redefine bridal dazzle(ness.)
My mommy is supposed to walk me down the aisle. Because while she has broken my heart in various and callous ways, she is my mommy.
Mommies are our angels. They are not meant to have a shelf-life.
Dear October.
Today is my brother's birthday. Arnold is my favourite man. He is growing into the man that will make God change His mind about annihilating all male species.
Dear October, come laden with blessings. And joy. And inspiration. And friends. And love.
September took the life out of us.
I came close to self-destruction.
I do not know how my usually perceptive friends were not able to see it.
The alcohol I was drowning in wasn't meant for recreational purposes at all.
The intention was to forget. But I couldn't. You cannot forget the despair that resides in the depths of your soul.
I lost alot of me to September. Creativity. Love-that came a tad too late, joy, passion, hope, sleep.
I lost the will to be alive. September. You hit me hard.
October...
I am a recovering life -and-it's stupid happenings-patient.
Be gentle.
On us all.
Rest In Perfect Peace, Mildred's mama.
"Wake Me Up When September Ends"
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
seven years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
summer has come and passed
the innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
ring out the bells again
like we did when spring began
wake me up when September ends
here comes the rain again
falling from the stars
drenched in my pain again
becoming who we are
as my memory rests
but never forgets what I lost
wake me up when September ends
Summer has come and passed
The innocent can never last
wake me up when September ends
like my father's come to pass
twenty years has gone so fast
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
wake me up when September ends
Green Day.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
 |
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. |
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
On Struggles... And Bling.
"The Struggle Continues For Greater Horizons." That was my primary school motto. Kitante Primary School. It does sound quite philosophical. Like the tons of deep phrases out there that make you think the moon is an aim away. Albeit an imaginary aim. I am with Mos Def on this one. No one's really been to the moon. I mean, how would we know? If you're remotely intuitive, you should realize by now that this isn't going to be one of those believe-you-can-and-you-will sessions. It's a very down& low post. This woman is fighting. Against life-as it is right now. The currents have sworn battle, the gods are in the mood to play human chess& I am their current toy-victim. Even fashion is in the mix. I couldn't find my choice of lipstick at any beauty shop all weekend.
In brief, my fists are bunched up, my helmet is on, but I keep bouncing off the walls I'm trying to break. Mostly because the elements of life that are these walls, are made of steel.
Battle Hardened Steel. Meet the forces up in arms against me.
Grain-Sized Faith.
The Good Book tells me that if I should but have the faith of a mustard seed....Right now, I'll be grateful for for pepper seed-sized faith. Yes, to believe is an easy thing. One day, I will afford a cappuccino maker. But to believe when all is falling apart around you, when all that matters the most is crumbling, and not responding to your panicked prayers.
How is one meant to find faith when not even one aspect of one's life has some form of stability? How do you believe in a better day, when each passing day brings more gloom?
How do I believe in a just God when all I see is pain? and anger? The pain of those I only see on TV I can ignore. The pain of those that matter to me shreds my heart to bits.
How do I believe in happy endings when the road to said end is only filled with thorns& more aches? Now would NOT be a good time to mention Cinderella or any character from the Fairy tale neighbourhood. Faith gets you through life's current messy mess. But right now, I am siding with Thomas.
A clear sign from above would be welcome.
The Love That Never Comes.
Love is taking her time getting to me. Oh yes, I have semi-experienced love. The mostly-fake, "not meant to last- I know-it -will-lead to-no-good-but, What The Hell??;I am in." That type of love.
If you can call it love. I believe in love. Partly because movies such as "A Walk To Remember" are in existence. Mostly because I believe in God. And more mostly because Amy Lee& Seether went& did that" Broken" song.
But to the heart of the matter. I have seen more pain, more loss, more tears& more disappointment come out of love& love's assumptions than I have joy, or gladness, or diamond rings. I loveeee diamonds.Yes.
Love has proven to be elusive.
I am not desperate, no. But am also not the sort that will settle for anything less than a racing heart, promises of semi-blackout physical unions& a deeply embedded love of God. Plus monogamy.
Especially monogamy.
So, am stuck here waiting on....something that has only worked against me thus far. I have broken hearts; very knowingly. I have have taken heartless to new levels. In attempts at something akin to love.
Also, I have been broken. I have died on the inside, hardened on the outside, and had everything in between wither away.
But I remain hopeful. One day, a certain stranger will smile at me, I shall smile back, and this frost around my heart shall melt. And the fear of hurt will be conquered. With his arms around me. And a big rock for me.
 |
| So, you said Maureen, right? |
Battle Hardened Steel. Meet the forces up in arms against me.
Grain-Sized Faith.
The Good Book tells me that if I should but have the faith of a mustard seed....Right now, I'll be grateful for for pepper seed-sized faith. Yes, to believe is an easy thing. One day, I will afford a cappuccino maker. But to believe when all is falling apart around you, when all that matters the most is crumbling, and not responding to your panicked prayers.
How is one meant to find faith when not even one aspect of one's life has some form of stability? How do you believe in a better day, when each passing day brings more gloom?
How do I believe in a just God when all I see is pain? and anger? The pain of those I only see on TV I can ignore. The pain of those that matter to me shreds my heart to bits.
How do I believe in happy endings when the road to said end is only filled with thorns& more aches? Now would NOT be a good time to mention Cinderella or any character from the Fairy tale neighbourhood. Faith gets you through life's current messy mess. But right now, I am siding with Thomas.
A clear sign from above would be welcome.
 |
| So, Hmmm...It is kinda freezing in here... |
Love is taking her time getting to me. Oh yes, I have semi-experienced love. The mostly-fake, "not meant to last- I know-it -will-lead to-no-good-but, What The Hell??;I am in." That type of love.
If you can call it love. I believe in love. Partly because movies such as "A Walk To Remember" are in existence. Mostly because I believe in God. And more mostly because Amy Lee& Seether went& did that" Broken" song.
But to the heart of the matter. I have seen more pain, more loss, more tears& more disappointment come out of love& love's assumptions than I have joy, or gladness, or diamond rings. I loveeee diamonds.Yes.
Love has proven to be elusive.
 |
| Aim better, Love-god. |
Especially monogamy.
So, am stuck here waiting on....something that has only worked against me thus far. I have broken hearts; very knowingly. I have have taken heartless to new levels. In attempts at something akin to love.
Also, I have been broken. I have died on the inside, hardened on the outside, and had everything in between wither away.
But I remain hopeful. One day, a certain stranger will smile at me, I shall smile back, and this frost around my heart shall melt. And the fear of hurt will be conquered. With his arms around me. And a big rock for me.
 |
| Hellooooo Darling... |
Me Has A Dream
And my dream, it is very hazy. Almost like I am actually sleeping& dreaming about what my dream should be like but it is not exactly very clear, mostly because I am actually awake Capiche? Non? Me neither.
That's how dire the situation with my dreams is. Dream actually. I am on the right path-dream wise. I know that for sure. But when the path to my dream(s) gets jammed with a number of nightmares, I...well...I do not. WTH? I get mad.
Let me tell you how frustrating it is, when having finally put your life's vision in perspective ( you figure out what you're good at, get your behind on the road that will get you to that dream, at least it should point you to the Main Dream Road). And then what you are good at decides it doesn't want to be excelled at any more.
I have failed to write anything for weeks. My favourite music hasn't helped, neither has Maya Angelou. Reading my own blog didn't help much. It just reminded me that my finally-on-the-road dream was slowly burning out.
Allow me to point out that writing is what I love best. I need my inspiration source to wake up& realize I die when I can't write.
Oh, I smile, and laugh. But I die. Because my words are my connection to life's source. Not writing means I'm disconnected from God, somehow. And that drains me in ways no words can aptly describe.
Writing is my life. And I am fighting for dear life right now.
Blasts From The Past.
The past should be left alone.Mostly because it is over& done with. But more because we cannot go back& change it. Am sure God had a very good reason for this particular plan of action, or rather lack of action.
Say, God, being able to change the past might work for us all. We'd go back& uninvent formal schooling. Look at all the damage; home work, atomic bombs, George Bush...And men would give birth ( I see every female solemnly agreeing)....
But the powers that be didn't think it wise to enable us change our past. You'd think I'd have learnt the reason behind that by now. Nope. Poor, poor God.
My past has become my present. Not in a wise way-thingy. In a," But if I don't find a way to let go really soon, I'll soon be a case study for failure-to-move-on-psycho illness" sort of way.
I want to let go. I want to move on. I want my heart& whatever other organ aches each time I remember the past, to stop hurting. But how do I let go of some one I let so close? How do I let go of the person that made it a point to engrave themselves on to me? How am I supposed to forget everything? Pretend we never were? How do I make my friends see that the reason it gets so hard is not because it was all roses? But precisely because, the thorns were almost non existent? Except the one that took you away.
How do I let go of Stella when I somehow start to talk to her each night? Especially when it all hurts like hell? You think I am weird? I don't know who else I'll allow to see me that way. How do I stop cursing her& being mad at God for taking her away so soon? Just how do you get over the death of one of your soul mates?
The past has become my shadow. It clings to me& sticks to anything that will evoke the semblance of a memory. Blowing old life into new mornings, and further haunting the nights. How do I get over my favourite jeans failure to fit perfectly because they will not make friends with my hip add-ons??
The past.This struggle is hardest.
The fight against time is futile. Unlike dreams, faith and love, there is no story where time succumbs to the pressure of happy endings. Always gets her way. Her way to the future.
"Wounds heal,
Scars remain.
Whether we want to, someday we stop clinging,
And move on."
So, in a post, I am fighting. Against all the elements that seem intent on taking the light out of my eyes. I am fighting because I will not live a life minus my God. Because I will not give up on love, scarred heart be damned. And most of all, because I will not live in the shadows of what could have been. Shadows are dark.
And darkness simply means, life is out the door.
I have failed to write anything for weeks. My favourite music hasn't helped, neither has Maya Angelou. Reading my own blog didn't help much. It just reminded me that my finally-on-the-road dream was slowly burning out.
 |
| Crumpled Dreams |
Oh, I smile, and laugh. But I die. Because my words are my connection to life's source. Not writing means I'm disconnected from God, somehow. And that drains me in ways no words can aptly describe.
Writing is my life. And I am fighting for dear life right now.
Blasts From The Past.
The past should be left alone.Mostly because it is over& done with. But more because we cannot go back& change it. Am sure God had a very good reason for this particular plan of action, or rather lack of action.
Say, God, being able to change the past might work for us all. We'd go back& uninvent formal schooling. Look at all the damage; home work, atomic bombs, George Bush...And men would give birth ( I see every female solemnly agreeing)....
But the powers that be didn't think it wise to enable us change our past. You'd think I'd have learnt the reason behind that by now. Nope. Poor, poor God.
My past has become my present. Not in a wise way-thingy. In a," But if I don't find a way to let go really soon, I'll soon be a case study for failure-to-move-on-psycho illness" sort of way.
I want to let go. I want to move on. I want my heart& whatever other organ aches each time I remember the past, to stop hurting. But how do I let go of some one I let so close? How do I let go of the person that made it a point to engrave themselves on to me? How am I supposed to forget everything? Pretend we never were? How do I make my friends see that the reason it gets so hard is not because it was all roses? But precisely because, the thorns were almost non existent? Except the one that took you away.
How do I let go of Stella when I somehow start to talk to her each night? Especially when it all hurts like hell? You think I am weird? I don't know who else I'll allow to see me that way. How do I stop cursing her& being mad at God for taking her away so soon? Just how do you get over the death of one of your soul mates?
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| I Miss You 'Ella. |
The past has become my shadow. It clings to me& sticks to anything that will evoke the semblance of a memory. Blowing old life into new mornings, and further haunting the nights. How do I get over my favourite jeans failure to fit perfectly because they will not make friends with my hip add-ons??
The past.This struggle is hardest.
The fight against time is futile. Unlike dreams, faith and love, there is no story where time succumbs to the pressure of happy endings. Always gets her way. Her way to the future.
"Wounds heal,
Scars remain.
Whether we want to, someday we stop clinging,
And move on."
So, in a post, I am fighting. Against all the elements that seem intent on taking the light out of my eyes. I am fighting because I will not live a life minus my God. Because I will not give up on love, scarred heart be damned. And most of all, because I will not live in the shadows of what could have been. Shadows are dark.
And darkness simply means, life is out the door.
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| OK. Moving On. To LIFE. |
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