eye of the storm

many centuries, buried treasures hidden from scrutiny come hither every now and then to tantalise our senses. is there really nothing new under the sun? its been good hiding in these books. and at the end of 12 chapters, it makes one feel almost righteous but a tugging string inside keeps you grounded.

all of these reasons, all of our choices, for better days ahead, yet why does it stick like gum on the doors that lead to the land of the living? what makes us tick? what makes us feel good? what strokes our ego in the eye of the storm? what does it serve? how do we love? Or have we forgotten how we loved when we were just tiny tots with all the wonder and delight for what we have?

there's a little zygote that lives opposite from my city that gives me a goodnight kiss every now and then. what with all the slobber of mucus, tears and salivation, i never minded. i leave the mark on my cheeks, let it dry a little and feel the wet peck against the cold bite of this winter frost. he has no idea what he does to me every time. so i sing and hum and write because these are the nursery rhymes that will carry him through each eventful night.

i meant to say that with every performance brings a severity to the soul of the performer. in that there is a dying occurrence, that we die to ourselves when we go into character - whether a ballerina, actor, opera singer or rocker. We become a different person so that in consistency with the entire piece, we transcend and bring the audience to a different place, a place hopefully vivid and real in our imagination. That, is a powerful medium.

So what captures our imagination is important to make or break us. And the idea is that it is not about us. What responsibility this shoulders us who have chosen to make a life out of an artistic virtue. What histories will we write? What Nina Simone's, Miles and Slim Shady's will we make?

What is holding our heads ransom in the chaos and confusion of our times?

Like wine and long kept spirits, these wisdom come with time, breath and heartaches. Which is why some of us stay in a posture of desperate lack, a little longer than usual, to capture the essence of a generation waking up to a world already at war.

gnash

words fail. miserably. to try is proverbially copping out. each breath ignites a small flame snuffed out before it gives light. waves. waves of shouting demons, crumbling and cowering, distasteful memories waking two seconds later. the hours tick away. tick away.

for our struggle is not against flesh and blood, not against those we can touch, feel, smell. not against agendas, loyalty, badges. we're at war. not with machines, systems, institutions. we are at war against our oppressed minds. we are fighting the unseen, invisible, those things that capture our imagination, our passion, our attention. we are at war against distractions that undermine and leverage our value system, our morals, our need for lines, clear distinct channels.

God, have mercy on us all. We need you for more than our daily bread.

pray a song of sixpence

The drugs are still fresh underneath the wounds. common commentary says so many things. get out while you can. we each lead different lives and roads cross and intersect. they make us richer and some poorer for it. does that mean we need to give up, trade in, walk out? we're not a pack of cards on the poker master's table.

i wish it were simple. for you and for me. for the entire race of us. somewhere deep down I know that you know that we are not there yet. that we are misinterpreting the sign of the times. whatever the weather we don't just do what we see fit and righteous in our eyes. we don't eat the fruit because we can. we don't trade in God's name just because we earned the badge.

What will the hand do if the eye is hurting? is it too busy working away, that we all begin to go blind and so suffer the defiance of our times?

i believe we're made for more than this. Made to be a shelter from the storm, refuge from the wind. Made to live, breathe, give, share, connect, strengthen and undergird. who are we listening to today? To the voice of reason, or to the reason of your passion? One life, one shot, it's all we've got. Are we lost in the jungle of our pursuits?

Have mercy on me, on us, on our generation, Oh God. You are the first to lay down, live outside the system, inconvenienced for lives. Teach us to love. Teach us to cry. Teach us to invest in your Kingdom. Lest we squander our heritage. Lest we forget the grace of our fathers. Let we become mere humans, digging wells deep to satisfy our hunger. Lest we martyr the spies who come with good news.

holding my breath

and it's not helping. perhaps it is cold turkey, the pseudo professional in you, says. i'm in the circle and all i see are the boundaries and so can you, even outside of the circumference. my words have failed me miserably lately. i can see how the bad grammar have infused my use and honestly i am not as cool about it as i was.

i had a sunday epiphany when the normal ramble of your usual self stuck itself out like a sore thumb. and i'm a sucker for it, i give it that, that I listen and patiently let you let your air out, without prejudice. i realised some people have trajectories set out for them, ever since their DNA was locked into flesh and blood. some fly, some walk maimed, some blaze into the horizon easily, effortlessly. i sat there hearing the words coming out of a young damsel, filtered through your lens and i thought to myself, what about me?

we are the sum of our history and choices we make.

i am still figuring out a lot of the basics my folks have yet to get to. So this is the legacy they left me with. A pair of hands, a mind refusing to be bought out, a heart on the sleeve, hoping to find the kind of love that will finish this long drawn circle of life. i've been missing the dots and i can see why. the kingdom i am building comes with a lot of missing instructions and resources. mostly with broken tools that will break the fingers. so, this struggle for affection is a borrow on your social grace. but what happens when love is not enough to power up what had been lacking in your good self?

so here i am. turning to this forsaken canvas once again. for my words have been the double edged sword and we're both severely wounded. i'll make the best of my remaining years and hope you don't grow tired of listening to me. there's still so much more and we're not done yet. for these uncertain times, i still my heart. to love but quietly and recede into the dark. i'm an acquired taste so here, me, now, i'm holding my breath, hoping for the best.

this morning vessel

so it's me. i lie here, tired, exhausted for rest. but my mind spins, on overdrive, algorithms that don't make sense. i pray, i babble. coo and coax my being into a lull. the clock ticks away to the beat of the electric current rushing through my surround. i note the time it takes for the automatic door to slide out. i'm always 15 mins too ahead of myself. i should stick my head into the fridge and fry it cold.

so it's the morning, I tell myself this grumpiness is just a cold car engine starting. it's ok, you will warm up. it's taken a beating for years and so have you. my thoughts turn into continuous spurts of conversation about what i have done in the last 24 hours. in the silence against the wind and the rain pelting against your windshield, i push my thoughts away and leave the silence to the space it wants.

the passing scene outside brings me back to last night at the chocolate place. where my surrogate brother from 4 years ago sits and shows and tells me stories from his adventures and the inspiration my heart felt. this wild soul is not done yet. we trade anecdotes, experiences and ideas and find common ground to rub shoulders. there was a shift in my heart as it fell out from my sleeve.

times are a changin. so they say, conventional wisdom, different seasons. vessels like us, where stories travel through. come. walk through me.

how do i begin

the thick volume that reeks like the old encyclopedia. how do i tell the story and point them in a succinct, lucid manner? i have these pieces of virtual post it notes stuck on the walls of my mind, sign posts that I will find useful later when the tapestry is ready to string these together. I feel like the editor sitting in the post production putting together the movie, Memento.

i stretched to flick the music over to Herbie Hancock and hopefully the New York Minute will give me some rhythm to kick this story writing into gear. I only have 10 minutes. How do I make it count?

inspire me.

dust and the damsel

the delight you see in your eyes, is the nemesis like popsicles on sticks. you see, the room gets bigger with each hour of absence. how do i explain this? the dust is collecting on every untouched furniture and soon, the movies won't be playable. it's the same dejavu feeling. like the knife that cuts deep should cut deep now. i can hear the rumble and the ticking of machines keeping this life source chugging like an old overworked train. i feel like shouting because they fall on deaf ears. how can i not let my emotions get the better of me? when you're not around, the emptiness amplifies. will you start this odd year again, with my mouth gagged when the people ask and seek? will my loneliness drive me to this death floor? for i am convinced more than what you are trying to undo, that i am not wanted. that it doesn't matter. that the magic cards you easily parted with, is the way you would flush me down this pipe so we can drown out this inconvenient emotional wreck, so you can sail into the sunset. like i said, different shovel, same shit. will i bite the dust tonight?