Full Blown madness

Echoes of our footfalls

2011-06-22T23:52:00.008+03:00

We walk along the street, he and I. Hand in hand because he insisted… I should feel delicate and protected when he walks me across the road and guides me away from the approaching traffic. I feel infantilized instead. Maybe the delivery of his chivalry is off or maybe I'm just not that kind of girl.

For me, the conversation is strained. My thoughts come out in short ineloquent bursts. Small talk is not my forte, you see and we have less than nothing in common. He doesn't seem to notice and I thank God for little mercies.

He's amused about how attentive I was during the movie we watched together. I want to say that there's no other way for me to watch, that anything less wouldn't be worth it. I know he won't understand so I hum under my breath instead. We talk about random things; simple enough things that I find impossible to sustain. What time he slept last night, what he'll have for supper… He listens to Tyrese and he doesn't get rock. I find that impossible to understand. I guess to each his own. In this labyrinth of shallow triviality, I crave depth. I want to say, "Let's talk about something we came up with all by ourselves. Something intangible and abstract; something unexplored.

Now we are walking along the street where you and I walked once, where our feet once clapped loudly against the tarmac on a silent night. I try to remember the conversation we had as we walked along here; our voices, whispering as if we were afraid to wake this sleeping town. I can't but I remember the warm ease of it; words fluid and easy, shyly at first like old lovers reunited then slowly gaining momentum. Finding their groove and flowing readily.

I reach my taxi finally and he goes out of his way to ensure the driver know his 'wife' is riding in the car. I'm sure that if I tried, I could find it all very endearing. Perhaps even a certain shade of romantic. Instead I'm glad when the last passenger settles in since I know I won't have to watch him linger outside anymore.

I'm exhausted when I get home but I remember to send him a text to let him know I got here safe; as per his instructions. I'd rather that than a long phone call. He calls anyway and I let the phone ring. That call is easily the twentieth today and I've run out of any indulgent patience. Then, in a moment of terror, I wonder if that is how you see me.

Before the vultures come circling

2011-06-22T07:00:00.018+03:00

I know now, even as I search through my rusty, cobwebbed writer's mind for words to spin this tale, it will not come together the way I plan. The truth often is that way, rarely doing the big thing and giving us a heads up before it comes in – guns blazing.

Now, how can I begin to tell you this tragic story of the madness in my head? I know it's too late to change anything and the future is fast becoming present. I should have screamed from the very start. I should have yelled loudly at the top of my lungs; "Stop! Come back for me!" Except, how was I to know that the clock was ticking and my time was running out? Shit. I would have fought for you.

Today, for the first time, it dawns on me that I've lost you.

We are seated in that café you really love, surrounded by strangers and familiar things… I am telling you the story of the waiter who couldn't get my order right and you are telling me about the weekend that was. We are talking over each other as usual, gesturing wildly, laughing heartily, using the strangers around us to illustrate our arguments; trying to figure out their stories…

Somehow we come to talking about me and the new man in my life. How dramatically different he is from me, how so very little we have in common…

"Don't ever settle", you say.

I try to convince you of his awesomeness, his kindness, his intellect, wondering at the same time whether any of this is true considering how little I know him. I ask you about something you did and you're silent and then you change the topic like you didn't hear what I said. I laugh at that because that's exactly what I knew you would do. No unnecessary confrontation if you can help it.

My mind wanders involuntarily back to a time when you were still crazy for me. You and I in a badly parked car, headlights and radio on: scattered fragments of conversation punctuated by tender kisses and comfortable silences. We talked about staying up to watch the sunrise and I remember thinking you probably would've never left if the nosy watchman hadn't come along. I laugh at the memory, especially the horror on his face when he realized what he had interrupted. Our cheerful banter continues.

We're startled by how late it's gotten. We're both going to be late getting to the places we ought to be but still we linger. The walk to the stage is unhurried, like we have all the time in the world for pleasure and conversation. I think back to when at the end of a day like this of hours spent together, we'd still have insanely long phone calls through the night. Sometimes, while we talked, I'd sit in the corridor leaning against the door because my laughter kept my roommate up. This, of course we don't do anymore. I guess it would be a strange habit to explain to your wife.

I silently curse bad timing and my dismal past for all my neurotic caution where I should have been falling blindly, madly. I wish I was selfish enough to tell you now and let it be your problem and not mine. I imagine it would be so easy amidst the forest of vaguely familiar perambulators, the blaring of car horns, screeching of brakes and hoarse voices of wild eyed conductors to say aloud, "It's you who makes me happy". Perhaps the banality of everything around us would make you deaf to my horrific confession. Instead, the lyrics of a song ring in my head

Nothing compares,
No worries or cares,
Regrets and mistakes, they're memories made,
Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?

Never mind, I'll find someone like you,
I wish nothing but the best for you,
Don't forget me, I beg,
I remember you said,
"Sometimes it lasts in love,
But sometimes it hurts instead."

Death and salvation

2010-08-21T14:14:00.004+03:00

I am here, in a place I called home. The people are the same and yet everything is different.

So maybe there are plenty of new supermarkets and the banks are more than I can count on two hands. For me it doesn't matter cause all the goodness has been sucked away in development and progress. Everything I loved is dilapidated, squatting apologetically in the midst of all that's shiny and new... And the people? Yes they smile, showing their toothy grins, asking me how the old folks are. That is just a mask. Under the cover of darkness, they are the ones who pin me to the ground as I struggle helplessly, and try to tear off my jeans. Even in the day, there's a strange darkness that lingers, the kind one couldn't recognize if they didn't know anything else. This is no longer a place to love and cherish. It screams that I have changed but it has, most of all. It's heartbreaking, these memories lost in revision.

Yesterday I thought that it would kill me, that the death of this beautiful thing would snuff out my joy... But in the air, I smelt something warm and familiar and it made me smile.

Plain realities

2010-08-20T15:09:00.004+03:00

........and it can't be rushed - this desire to reach and be reached.
Endless meaningless conversations; that is all they are without patience....
Maybe, I didn't want to tell you that she told me something you said and it tore me to bits.
Maybe the confusion will always remain, awkward and permanent.
I know that I don't want to be on the sidelines.
Maybe this isn't meant to be

Why I'm not writing

2010-05-18T11:03:00.002+03:00

I've been staring at this blank page for about an hour now and thinking, what the heck should I write? The problem isn't the material, I mean, the plenty there..... harsh, emotional, happy, sad, paediatric, mature stories to tell. What it is really is how to say the things that I feel and hear and know... That's quite the dilema for the writer in me, isn't it? After all, my gift is expression and all that other nonesense. I am a word smith and that is my trade. Nonetheless, everything my mind conjures seems an inadequate comparison to the picture I have in my head. I don't know whether I should blame it on the limitation of the English vocabulary or just the patchiness of my capability.

Why aren't you listening to me?

2010-04-10T10:28:00.002+03:00

They lay on the bed; legs entwined, scents mingling. The tension as they gazed in each other’s eyes was magnetic, the energy contagious. In that moment, all that she could see was him; all she could see was her. He touched he face tenderly then leaned in to kiss her. It was meant to be chaste, like a goodnight kiss but the charge of it seemed to take them both by surprise. They were in that place of oblivion and pleasure. Clothes were torn off in wanton haste as if to have them on beyond that moment would be death in itself. Hands strayed, at first touching gingerly then boldly places they’d only visited in their minds. Seconds seemed endless as their bodies called to each other, urgently, feverishly going well past the place of human restraint to a place that not even their minds could fully conceptualize. Lips on lips, fingertips on fingertips, skin on skin, the embrace of the sexes……. Then they begun to climb; higher, fuller, faster, freer

I sat there, unmindful of the heat emitting from their charged bodies, unaware of the creaking of wood with each movement they made, of the sighs of pleasure from their lovemaking…..

As if in a trance I sat there, at the edge of the bed asking over and over
“Why aren’t you listening to me?”
As I went on and on about the odd this and the random that.

At least that’s how she says her dream played out. So, if dreams are a manifestation of our subconscious, what the heck?!

Of pain

2010-04-04T14:09:00.005+03:00

Nothing can hurt us without our approval.

It is our willing permission,

our consent to what happens to us

that hurts us even more

than what wounded us originally.

When words are not enough

2010-04-01T17:17:00.004+03:00

I tried to write of you today with intricate words;
Unhurried, sentimental, beautiful.
I thought they could be mirrors,
A reflection of you.
Somehow though, they resound with hollow emptiness,
Ringing of my failure in their incompleteness.

I know now that you can not be caged
With pretty words girded with affection.
You are free and full.
I can only speak to you silently with my soul.

Letter from a conflicted writer

2010-03-30T17:00:00.002+03:00

Dear Memory,
It’s been a while since we last spoke. I guess perhaps it’s easier to pretend that the past never happened than to linger tirelessly over the things that are long gone. How have you been? I hear a lot of good things about you from some and the most horrid things from others. That’s the way it is with life though, isn’t it? Everyone has their own story to tell.

I thought that calling you would be easier or perhaps sending a message, more practical but you never seem to reply those, which leaves me here writing this cheesy letter in the hope that you will be able to help me with my present crisis. I know what you’re thinking. You can’t wrap your head around the fact that I’m asking you for help especially since when you were still my shrink or whatever you were, that word wasn’t in my vocabulary. You’re the only one who got me, back in the day, but I guess I was just too much for you to handle and it was easier to make it someone else’s business for a change.

I stopped writing after you left, just flat lined like a withered corpse in a matter of seconds. How could I have continued? You had been my muse, my inspiration and then there was a vacuum in the place you once had stood. It wasn’t so bad after a while, I mean, I numbed myself to the point that I could no longer feel the excruciating pain of your departing. I even did the big thing and wished you well, life went on. I’ve been great since then, fantastic actually. I met a boy, he’s sweet and all but when it comes right down to it, he wouldn’t know me from Eve. That aside, life is good. It’s all pretty rainbows and what not. Well at least it was until I started writing again.

I remember when you were still here; you could never quite understand my blues. All those tantrums that had nothing to do with my cycle, or the tears, those constant endless tears just drove you near mad. I don’t blame you, I was quite frightened of it myself but boy, did I write! It’s illogical, isn’t it that the more chaotic my emotions were, the better my writing got? Well, it’s back again: the writing and the blues.

My, if only you could read the work I wrote! Sometimes I think that it might be a miracle, that perhaps my hand is guided by something ethereal and divine. Something beautiful and dark and at the same time ghastly yet poignant. It’s nothing like I’ve ever felt before and maybe I cannot even begin to make you understand but oh, the thrill! In the moment when I put my hand to paper, I am not myself anymore, rather a slave to the pulse of my words. It is transcendence at its height and I cannot help but be drawn in farther and farther past me every limit until each breath I take is like a dying man’s gamble with life.

My mind is brimming with stories and I know every character by name. I know their yearnings, their secrets, their hopes and their greatest fears and most of the time it feels like a chorus in my head with every one of them wanting to get one in. I live there now, in my head, talking to them, absorbing them and in the odd moment when I return to my body, it seems to me rather emaciated, person with hollow unseeing eyes who I can’t recognize. Perhaps the melancholy is because I do not know how to be parted from them; possibly they are more me than even I am. They can be happy, sometimes they sing and dance and make my noisy head louder still. For some reason though, all I can translate is their pain. It seems that their hurt is a yoke too heavy for them to bear and so in my own way I am their savior, carrying on my shoulders every last burden, paying for their wrongdoings.

I can’t even recall the last time I had a decent conversation with anyone in the real world. God only knows what has become of my man. Every time I talk to my parents, I feel an overwhelming unreasonable anger, I call it the Rage. We fight, or rather I shout and scream while they look at me and tell me things like,
“Mature Christians should learn how not let their circumstances dictate how they feel”
The ‘what would Jesus do’ card, that never gets old. I guess I should know that but in that moment the rage becomes a storm, destroying everything in its path. Sometimes I don’t stop until I see the tears well up in my mother’s eyes and then, not from remorse or sympathy but a sickly feeling of disgust at how pathetic she seems to me. I spent last Sunday afternoon holding a stray wet puppy for hours, warming it so it could fall asleep and yet for some inexplicable reason, the thought of human contact is as appealing as an amputation without an anesthetic.

You remember what it was like, don’t you? That’s the reason you left, it was more than you could handle. Now, I’m back in square one and I have only one question to ask. All I need is an honest answer. If you had to choose between your life and your art, what would you give up?

Always yet never yours,
The conflicted writer

Confusion

2009-08-11T09:02:00.004+03:00

There's nothing new to say,

Except to sing of blistered hands

and withered hearts;

And of those you can't quite sing

For then pain forever rings.

Blistered hands from too much application,

Withered hearts from misplaced supplication.....

Ceaseless questions hang aimlessly

for honest answers are hard to come by,

All the hows and whens and whys

Met with dreadful silence

After many failed attempts.....

2009-08-04T14:13:00.001+03:00

Life is never as glamorous as we make it seem. So often we heighten every emotion we feel, give everything a poetic spin, make the blues bluer and and the pain grimmer. Life is okay, bearable, even good sometimes. Never extreme.

That's what I have to believe today; in this moment atleast. I think maybe if I hold onto this thought long enough, then this weight of deadness will get off of my chest because the hurt can't be as terrible as I think. Maybe the smiles around me will seem a tad less bright because nobody has any reason to smile that hard or that often. Maybe I'll feel like it hasn't been forever since we talked without fighting since there can't possibly be any reason we should fight that often.....

Even I can't convince myself. Cheating pain means stealing from joy and I can't accept that Tuesday afternoons aren't that beautiful with the breeze blowing in the trees or that life isn't shitty as hell on days like today.

I wanted to write a story so startlingly beautiful that I'd be in awe of myself, the kind that makes one forgive themselves for every day they had writers' block or doubted their artistic ability. Today, I guess, is not one of those days; after many failed attempts, I've still come up empty.

Of birthdays and other nothings

2009-07-30T08:32:00.002+03:00

So it's my birthday today. Mostly, I have nothing to show for the length of time I've been alive except some pretty stupid decisions but every one is throwing words like great potential and bright future at me like they think I have my life all figured out. I'm utterly clueless! For the most part, I think of dropping out of school and maybe pursuing an alternative career in rythmic gymnastics or I could go off to India and 'find myself' or even become a gypsy and focus on the finer things in life... I'm young though and my canvas is still all flowery and dreamy; I think I'll just take time out and just be, for a while

Ever after

2009-06-12T11:59:00.000+03:00

She sits there writing in her battered journal, oblivious to the shrieks from her noisy age mates playing yet another game conjured in the heat of the moment. She shouldn’t even be there but submitting to her papa’s whims is much easier than another fiery argument. So she creates her own little bubble where her fantasies come alive, where the little characters she dreams up run around; sometimes floating lightly, other times stamping angry feet impatiently waiting for their stories to be written. She indulges them, sweet talks them, spoils them – anything so they can love her as much as she loves them. And she writes.

He watches her from across the room, wondering why she’s here since it’s obvious she doesn’t want to be. He sees her every day, sometimes in the park, sometimes like today in the youth auditorium. Lately, she stays with him in his head, becoming a constant distraction, an obsession even. He sits there, watching her, wondering why there’s so much sadness in her eyes. And then he rises and goes to her.

Pause

We’ve all seen this scene played out a dozen times; mystery dude to the rescue, knight in shining armour or whatever and the unsurprisingly saccharine happy ending usually involving a castle, eternal love and a ‘happily ever after’ to boot. This is not one of those tales. In this story, there are broken hearts, very sad tears and the big climax that I find constanly missing in all folklore – the moment the boredom sets in. So let’s say we skip the tedious details. Boy meets girl, instant chemistry…… blah, blah, blah.

Play

One year and counting and the knight realises that his damsel is addicted to her distress, that she can’t actually be without the perpetual sessions of brooding, that the little bubble world of hers he found oh so curiously appealing is in fact impenetrable to him as to the rest of the world. Then what? How long can that love wait pleadingly at her door, urging her to open and let him in? And when the door is eventually open how long can he stand to hear stories of her pain? Pain he feels she is strong enough to bear, the hurt he feels she should have out grown, the constant throbbing that eclipses any semblance of pleasure making even the slightest inclination to smile so outlawed that it might as well be the sacrifice of young virgins on alters of pagan gods.

Then, the very same pain that made her so arrestingly vulnerable, damns her to heartbreak because despair is something we can’t stand to be around. We loathe irrevocable hopelessness in our own different ways. For some it’s the outpouring of sympathy which if directed at them would kill every bone of pride in their bodies, for others it’s the pure and perfect hatred of weakness, and for others it’s complete desertion. Any way it plays out, the only sob stories we stand around for or perhaps even enjoy are those that last up until the part right before we get bored. Now that’s where the drama lies……

Imagine if Cinderella, twenty years into her ever after woke up haunted by the memories of her teenage years, or Rapunzel remained forever a prisoner in her heart even after her prince hearing her ethereal voice saved her from her tower. How long would the pretty memories last? How long before these princes start to prefer patterns of normalcy to colourful outlandish tales? How long before they just walk away?

Venus significat humanitatem

2009-06-12T07:49:00.003+03:00

He swings his legs over to the side of his bed, muttering under his breath words I can barely make out. I think he’s cursing or not, given his constant mantra that a man only curses because he doesn’t have the words to say what he thinks. He says that just to rile me, to rub in the painful truth that I can’t seem to stop swearing; as an affront to my supposed eloquence…

It works.

Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he shakes his dishevelled head. He says it again and this time I hear

“What am I going to do with you?”

There’s laughter in his voice, mirthless laughter. I don’t know how to react to this statement, whether to be angry at his denigrating tone or simply continue my annoying morning ritual of humming broken tunes of all time favourites. I raise a lazy finger and trace little circles round and round on his back, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back and then back up again. He grimaces as he stands and I can tell that he is angry; angry that even after teasing, tasting, taking all night, this seemingly tame gesture can wake his exhausted body up. Angry that he is powerless to stop it. Angry that last night, as we lay asleep side by side, merging into a gigantic question mark, he held me so selfishly, so possessively as if I was only for himself. Angry, perhaps, that I know this and that it gives me so much control….

In a few minutes of hurried preparation, we are out the door and in the car. I make a comment about a project he’s working on. He laughs mockingly at what he says is a gauche and amateurish observation. I know that is his revenge, that what I said is note worthy, profound even, because his brow is furrowed in intense concentration, the way it always is when I make one of my arresting assertions.

It stings anyway; because it’s him, because he knows it matters, because I can’t say anything about it without him making it about my ‘sudden’ oversensitivity to his satirical nature. The drive is silent after that. He, fighting the overwhelming urge to be tender, me, lost in thought. I remember what Maimouna, one of Sembene Ousmane’s characters in the book God’s bits of wood, says:

“You see with us – with women – we love a man when we know nothing of him and we want to know everything. And we pursue the one we have chosen no matter what happens, no matter how he treats us. But when we have learned what we wanted to know and there is nothing left, no longer any mystery, then our interest is gone.”

No matter what happens, no matter how he treats us…..

Sometimes, because of our miserable inadequacy, we are often overwhelmed, with envy or maybe fear, by the beauty in others we feel we can’t realize. We want life; our life, their lives to be limited to the confines of reason. In our desire to grossly violate the extraordinary, to erase its existence, we sever it pretty head and in so doing, level it to the mark of acceptability.

Well, at least that is what he does and now we are in limbo, so much so that we have quietened even what we thought was the immutable voice of reason; our raison d'être, so to speak. We are driving on fumes, on memories of a happier, fuller time. Loving has become so hard, a battle. What we have now? I don’t know…..

Overtime, the pain grows and with it, the intolerable cruelty that unvoiced confusion brings. I become somewhat frightened by the abysmal hopelessness of the ever growing hurt. Somehow, it reminds me of dull pounding that, regardless of how long it lasts, you never quite get used to and in the same moment of shattered glass, flying in ever which direction and yet still shooting wide of the mark.

Silence: that’s what defines us nowadays.

So many things left unspoken for so long that we forget each other so completely; even small talk becomes immeasurably difficult. Then there’s the hidden chaos; the dissonance of restrained feeling constantly mounting to a point that you have to express it or die! At that point, clarity dawns, as if the gods, waking from deep Adam-like slumber open their sleepy eyes and deliver me.

I see the world, I see him.

I see the little boy, terrified by what he feels, by the staggering intensity of it. I see his constant struggle to fight off the demons of past hurt and his continuous failure. I see his effort to convince himself that he is worthy of me; me who always puts up a show of eternal self confidence, me who’s tricked the world into loving me and now struggles to be that which the world loves, me who he has placed on his pedestal……. Me

And I laugh at life and its absurdities, at how like the six year old boy in the play pen, he pushes me into the proverbial sand pit and screams how I smell of dog poo, leaving me in tears – bruised knee and all yet what he really wants to do is share his lunch. I laugh at the detection of his masquerade and the relief I feel in unearthing this deception. And in that moment I think that perhaps Maimouna is wrong, that even when we know all there is to know and solve the mystery, that our interest still holds and we are in as much danger of falling in love with him as we were when we knew nothing to begin with. Perhaps, I shall wait for him to out grow his fears and then share that lunch. Perhaps, I shall stay….

It is love after all, that is the sign of our humanity. And love is intangible, illogical, unreasonable; without definition.

Love is you

2009-06-12T07:35:00.006+03:00

By Chrisette Michele

What's your definition of it?

How does it make you feel?

Tell me what you say that truly makes it real

Kings and Queens, Philosophers have tried so hard to find

Tell me what it means to you dear, nevermind

Love is kind when the world is cold

Love stays strong when the fight gets old

Love's a shoulder to lean on

Love is you

Love's like the water when the well runs dry

Quench my thirst, keep me alive

Just need it once too, baby

Love is you

Is it possible, there is a kiss that's so divine

Or am I just a fool, is it all in my mind?

Is there something chemical

A scientist might say

Well love must be a drug

To make me feel this way

Cause love's my permission to be who I am

No inhibitions cause you understand

Freedom to breathe oh baby

Love is you

Love's like a kiss when the sun goes down

Holds me tight when no one's around

Love's what I want to hold on to

Love is you

Love is kind, it makes me stronger

I don't have to look no longer

You're the one I cling to Love is you

When the chips are down

Love will stick around

I'm so glad I found

Love is you

As much as I've tried to clarify

Love's quite simple, he's just my guy

Perfect definition

Love is you

While we sleep

2009-05-31T09:47:00.005+03:00

I don’t know how long he may have stood there. Whether he had some master plan or if he was merely an amateur with an opportunity he wanted to seize in that moment…. How could I know? My mind was far away, in that place where dreams are made and magic is real; even for twenty year olds. It’s rare that I dream, or rather that I remember the little abstract titbits that float in and out of my subconscious but this was one of those days.

I dreamt of Cinderella in reverse; a story of a little orphan girl and a witch instead of a fairy godmother. A story in which the pumpkin remained exactly that – round, plump and orange - in which the mice were filthy and scurried around, nibbling at dead decaying mounds… A story with a prince, of course, an coarse ugly evil hearted being but a prince all the same. A story in which at the stroke of midnight, the orphan Cinderella returns home after a night with the prince, lost slipper and all but also bloodied petticoat and thighs bruised in places that the prince had torn to satisfy his perverse appetite. A fairytale without the happy ending

So there I was, in my own little dream world, unaware of the silent voyeur at my window who had somehow pried my window open and who now stood watching the rhythmic rise and fall of my naked breasts; the nipples that had budded in the cold. Perhaps that is what woke me, his naked penetrating gaze… I don’t know. I opened my eyes, startled to find myself being watched by this seemingly faceless stranger but his eyes, his eyes! Was that terror or shock? He had that look that wild animals have when they are cornered then caged: an overwhelming desire to strike back while in the same moment, an understanding that their fate has been sealed completely.

I blinked and he was still there, standing as if watching to see what I would do next. I sat up and quick as lightning he put a wire through the window and took my purse. I screamed. Not the kind of scream that speaks of fear but rather of shock – at his daring, at my own fearless curiosity, at the fact that my dream had been stopped abruptly and this was real. He ran, or perhaps I only imagined that. I reached out and tried to shut my window and this time he had a cassava stick. I almost laughed when I saw it. It was fresh, probably from our garden outside. I thought that he may hit me but somehow the threat of attack did not register. I looked at him again and saw his chequered orange shirt and his curly hair - dark as coal. Yet, somehow, I couldn’t for the life of me see his face. It was like a featureless orb except for those eyes, those wild searching eyes.

I screamed. I knew that was what he was waiting for before he decided whether to push dumb luck or flee for dear life. I screamed and sent him running.

The purse was more or less empty. If you lived in my house, you’d know not to leave money lying around for a certain someone to find. It had other things though, my ID, medical reports, academic nonsense and so on. Some he threw out, I wonder why… He took the most important thing though, the purse itself. Someone special gave it to me and now it’s been added to an ever increasing list of items that have mysteriously disappeared. Things that reminded me of her, things that I treasured.

In it was a picture of four laughing girls posing in a studio whose name I can't remember, laughing at the photographer who was asking us more or less to bring sexy back. In my on twisted way, I hope the laughter in our eyes haunts him, perhaps as much as his presence haunts my mother, perhaps as much as its loss hurts me, perhaps as often as my little sister will sleep fitfully trying to escape the thought of you at her window

F.W.Bs

2009-05-12T13:00:00.002+03:00

You're talking about your poetry, about the the latest piece you've penned. You want to read it out to me, I'd much rather read it myself but I indulge you, laughing a little inside. You start and I am somewhat distracted at the start but then I pay attention and it is poignant and beautiful like memories trapped in a capsule; ever present, ever yours...... you tell me stories of far aways lands, places you've been, people you've seen. I'm fascinated but I mask it, dismissing your tales with a smile and changing the topic to one I can argue with you about. You're watching me, I've made a mess of your room poring through your books and spreading them everywhere. You don't seem to mind, you just keep watching as if hypnotised by some unseen power I unconsciously wield as you tell me the story behind each book. You want to read something of mine, your fingers are itching to, you say. All I have is my journal and there's too much pain there, demons I am haunted by, the kind I can't let you see. you let it go and I'm laughing again, laughing at your absurd taste in music, laughing as you try relentlessly and pitchlessly to sing along to Yael Naim. You're unembarrassed, you want me to dance with you in you cramped room but I'm too shy and it amuses you......

So we sit and talk, you of family and exotic places and I as always playing safe with philosophies and love. You touch me, out of the blue, like it is your place to, like it is the most natural thing in the world to do. My hair, my face. All the while talking and watching me. you stop mid sentence and there's a kiss, then another, then another. You are holding me and I wonder passively how we got here then I laugh and you laugh with me. Laughter and kisses, laughter and kisses. There's someone at the door but you ignore it, instead you tap your hand against my body rhythmically to another ridiculous song. We start to talk again, about the music, the knock on the door, how beautiful you think I am; nothing and everything..... And there again is laughter and kisses

The picture

2009-04-29T16:30:00.005+03:00

Strangely, I've always wanted to appear natural in your picture. Not excessively gifted by nature with a beautiful face or striking looks; just real. I thought you would place me in an old rustic kitchen, nothing like the ones we have these days... One with cold water and concrete slabs; no modern artifacts to marr the scene. I pictured a cheery little fire place breathing warmth into the room where I'd stand in an old blue dress. I'd have an apron of course, it'd be white with stains of soot from when soiled hands strayed unconsciously. They'd be an old toothless black dog asleep at my feet on the cold stone floor and a wooden table at the centre of the room loaded with a colourful assortment of fruits and vegetables.... My hair would be wild, tangled in the way only sea breezes can or perhaps the eager fingers of an amateur lover. I'd be smiling, a smile woven by the laughter of children or walking barefoot in the sand.... There'd be white sheets hung out to dry, billowing in the wind like incarcerated angels fighting for their freedom. Then there'd be you, beautiful as ever, seated behind the untamed sheets in those moccasins I beg you constantly to throw away. That premature grey in you hair that you think makes you look distinguished would be even more evident now amidst the myriad of blinding white cloth. You'd have a playful lopsided grin on your face as you drunk every thing in and translated it to your intriguing poetry that is art. Then, you'd be as intoxicated by me as I am, always by you.

Of broken hearts and restoration.

2009-04-28T13:05:00.006+03:00

I held a stranger in my arms last night. She was cold and broken on the inside out and, filled with pain, afraid of the of the ghosts of the past that had come to haunt her. She held me so tight, I was afraid I would be ripped to shreds and yet I knew I wouldn't let her go even if I had the chance to.......

I hadn't been to church in I while... OK, I had been to church but just not the one my papa and mama are ministers at. I have never been overly enthusiastic about being a pastor's kid and given that I was a bit of a tomboy when I was younger, you imagine my horror at being all dolled up in pink, silly looking girly dresses and being made to sing in front of a congregation. Then as I grew older, I having to join some kind of ministry at every stage of my life and by default, be the said ministry leader and so on and so forth. I felt a strange need to escape this life and that is how my diabolical alter ego was born; the one who has successfully burst out of her spiritual bubble and decided to adventure a little......

Anyhow, there was a meeting at church and the old folks wanted me to go. I hated the idea, I had spent the whole day at the office and all I wanted to do was go sweet talk my movie guy into giving me a couple of free movies and head home. I ended up going, I guess if you knew my mom you would kow why.

We were late and the speaker had already started. He wasn't one of the fiery types and I was glad because I had a headache already. He wore a banale grey suit and had unassuming forgettable features; the kind that you could pass on a street and forget immediately. His lips were moving but I could barely hear what he was saying, I was too busy flirting with the cute stranger next to me.

I don't know what he said but he got my attention. His gaze held a sort of tangible magnetic intensity and I was suddenly fearful that he could see right through me. He talked about emotional wounds that cause heartbreak, how in His ministry, Jesus was so sure about his father's love and what it must have felt like for him to be deserted on the cross for us. He talked about rejection and how destructive it is and how Christ came to restore us from that destruction. All this time he looked at me, his intense gaze fixed as if to say 'don't bother hiding' I can see you!'

He asked the congregation to share their testimonies and each one came in tears sharing the unbearable pain they carried, the heartbreak they felt, the shame they hid from...... I sat in my chair and felt something in my gut constrict and my chest weighed a tonne. The people kept coming and then he asked then to come forward and pray together. I stood transfixed, afraid and embarrased to move, to be seen as flawed, weak, in pain......

"Bretheren in the congregation, come foward and hold the ones standing at the front"

I would have missed his summons if my sister hadn't dragged me foward. What was I supposed to tell these aching hearts? Jesus loves you and it will all be ok? He kept repeating the demand that we should forgive in order to set ourselves free. Forgive, forgive, forgive... I looked at the person standing next to me and held her without thinking. I felt her body shudder in an attempt to fight the emotion even before I felt her tears soaking my shirt. She clung to me like I was her life line, hoping to tap into some strength, perhaps. We stood there painting an odd picture of strangers in embrace and yet our hearts were strangely in tune... I don't know how long it took but the raging storms finally calmed and we let do as if only then did we recall that we were strangers. I turned to walk away and like the whispering of the sighing wind, I heard the words "God bless you" and that was enough.

When you are gone

2009-04-24T16:49:00.003+03:00

I pray for the day that you shall die
When in my heart, you are nothing more than a fading memory.
I pray for the day I shall smell your rotting corpse
in the earth that is me,
When the worms shall devour you and make me fertile.....
There shall be no dirge,
No church bells re-echoing pain.....
No ceremony,
No casket carried out,
No wreaths laid at your grave...
The children shall play in street corners,
Running away from the incessantly nagging mothers.
The men shall drink overly much and throw drunken tantrums
And I shall cry,
Happy happy tears
As I take a piss on your decaying carcass

What’s done in the dark

2009-02-06T10:33:00.001+03:00

She gathers up her clothes, half afraid to look at him
Sticky with sweat, with him
The sweet agony of seconds back forgotten,
In it’s place; shame and misery.
He grunts, sighs and turns dreaming perhaps of someone else,
She sneaks past leaving behind a candle
Glowing unceremoniously in the dark.
Alone. Cold.

He jabs his arm, swears loudly, tries again
In a corner lying forgotten, his crooked spoon
Black from over use.
He finds the vein, swears then groans; part pain, part pleasure
The needle joins the spoon on the floor
He rises, soaring high, leaving behind a candle
Brilliant flame, burning bright and true
Penetrating the darkness.

I lie in my bed
Warm, snug, fed
Looking at the moon through my window
Haunted by memories that linger
Praying for relief, the comfort of forgetfulness
Neither comes.
On my wall
Shadows of roaring flames
Burning, burning
Reaching higher and higher
I shut my eyes tightly and fall into a troubled sleep.

At dawn we all rise,
Her, Him, Me
Last night’s fires seemingly gone,
Covered by cheery smiles that belie our guilt……
Inside, the flames rage on
Burning high and fierce
Smoking, staining us with soot on the inside
We are all slaves.

Then night comes again.

Drama in real life part 2: The kiss

2009-01-07T15:15:00.003+03:00

"What makes you so sure I'm made of stone and how sure are you that I don't feel the same way?"
I can hear my heart in my ears, that deafening sound of half fear half relief that comes when two people admit they are attracted to each other. The knowledge that what happens next is left completely to chance and fate.
He holds me then, the moment seems endless, I feel myself rise and my heart beats louder at every new height. In his eyes I can see the fire that I know is the reason my eyes are stinging.
"Go"
He mouths it almost painfully, like they very thought of me comlpying is death in itself. I stand confused, speechless and slowly we walk, through the door, out onto the dirt road, hand in hand not saying a word.
I ask him to say something, any thing. The tension is so thick it can be cut.
"There's really nothing to say"
He puts my hand and his into the pocket of his sweat shirt, I feel a fresh tinge of warmth at the gesture. He is different but it's nice....

Later, I dream of his eyes, their intense penetration that scares me half to death and yet now, that I cannot live without.

Saturday, I'm hanging with my girls, all I see is their lips moving, I can't hear their words. I feel transported to a place that only I seem to see. Him. I hate him and what he is doing to me. I'm in a club, music is blaring,dancing sweaty bodies everywhere. Him again, in my head, in my blood. I hate it. I'm on the phone with him, silly excuse about a book which I suddenly need.... urgently.

I'm at his home in a few, wondering what possessed me to com, feeling the old familiar happy fear. He lets me in and again, there are no words, everything said with just one look. I feel cramped, claustrophobic, I check to see if the windows are open, they are. I sit. I stand and begin to pace. I sit again and in his eyes I see laughter. He sees my anxiety and is amused by it.

Times passes; a minute? an hour? Two? I don't know..... Somehow it doesn't matter. I know in that instant it's now or never. It happens so fast I barely have time to catch my breath....
Hands, hearts, breath, lips, tongue, darkness, pleasure. Nothing is awkward, no fidgeting wondering where the hands should be placed, just primitive impulses,; no restrain, no control, just desire and the need for it to be satisfied. Nothing one pictures in a first kiss, usually those are supposed to be chaste and sweet, awkward and experimental.... It was nothing like that. No, it wasn't. And then, things got out of control....

To be continued........

Truth

2008-10-26T06:42:00.004+03:00

Is it wrong of me to want to be close to a heart that makes me smile,
Hands that embrace me,
Faith that makes me walk for miles?

Would you judge me if I clung to love that made my soul leap,
Hope that chased my fears,
Patience that made me rise from a messy mound?

Maybe I am searching for too much too soon,
Begging questons that need not be answered,
Biting off more than I can chew,
Rending sinews anew....

You are my solace
You odd wretched thing,
You who in the same breath beckons and banishes.
In the labyrinth of you I have found my heart's rest
And nolonger do I roam baseless and seemingly abandoned.

Oh, but you will be the death of me!
For where you build, also do you tear down,
Where you plant, also do you scatter weed that strangles and suffocates...

You give me a voice
Then stifle it when I try to sing,
Ask me to drink from your boundless well
Then dip poison in the very drops I sip....

I cannot bear your heartless torture,
It tears me apart.

Still, I can never, ever leave you.

My abyss

2008-10-25T22:23:00.004+03:00

It's funny waking up one morning and feeling like you've lost your identity, the very essence of who you are or the only thing you knew yourself by. Actually, no, it's not funny. It's tragic. You feel like a veil has been draw over all you knew and you lost in some weird mist type thing..... Ok, whatever, I'm having a bad day. Every one suddenly seems so in love with me except the love of my life for 6 bleeding years, I'm starting to have the feeling that at the rate that I'm going, I'll probaby end up being one of those freaky hermit spinster chicks with all the cats..... I feel strangely lost, as if I'm losing some element of myself that I can't quite put my finger on..... Falling and waiting ever so desparately to be caught.... My best friend (or my person as I prefer to call him) and I had a fight because he says I'm losing the insensitivity that he found the most appealing aspect when we had just met. It is true but who even says that to anyone? Got to crash, then catch up with a mountain of work that is driving me half to death. I need to breath. Desparately.

Random

2008-09-20T18:54:00.001+03:00

"I have always laid it down as a maxim --and found it justified by experience --that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex --but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other."

Lord Byron

p.s: My plot has just been messed up by this guy

Melancholia

2008-08-13T10:18:00.003+03:00

I’m one of those chicks who pride themselves in the inability to feel such fickle human emotions as loneliness. I’m starting to rethink my stand on that though; I guess the powers that be are at work, doing their best to reassure me that I am in fact quite human contrary to common belief.
I was in an all girls’ school for the whole of my high school (you can stop gasping already, I’m perfectly normal). Regardless of that fact, I find it rather difficult to make girlfriends. Don’t get me wrong, girls are great and all but given the callousness and insensitivity of my temperament or personality or whatever, I’d much rather stick with the thicker skinned sex. There are some chicks on the other hand that perhaps are on heaven’s mission to redeem me from the hell that is I or maybe decide to disregard the Cruela attitude that I have so completely adopted……… I don’t know. Anyway, they are my friends
There’s this whole craze with studying abroad that I don’t completely click yet (don’t kill me P) but against my advice and better judgment, they have all been swept up in this tide. Every. One. Of. Them. It wasn’t so bad until Sunday night after I said goodbye to the last lot of them at the airport and comforted their miserable mothers- I have a knack for that by the way- I got home and it hadn’t hit me yet……. At least not completely that I no longer had anyone to wallow in self pity with or to share the latest juicy gossip with for the moment.
Anyhow, on Sunday night there was this major crisis at home that almost resulted in my death and I just needed to hala at some one who I didn’t have to start explaining everything to from scratch. You can imagine my horror when I realized there was none of my girls I could call, at least not for the next two days. As if that was not enough, all the guys had their phones off because it was Sunday night and they wanted an uninterrupted night before the new week. What the fuck?!
Worry not, I’m coping. I vent by breaking little birdies’ necks. Not

P.S: I’m trying to stop swearing, it’s not working very well though, any pointers? Not from you Antipop though

P.P.S: There is a new boy in my great life, more about it later……. Or not

Reasons why I love my nail specialist and other stories

2008-08-01T09:12:00.002+03:00

He pretends to believe me when I tell him half baked lies about why my nails are in such bad shape. e.g "it's just that time of the month" when really the vanish had chipped badly and all I had to remove it with was an old rusty nail file.
He seems to enjoy the fact that I speak miserable Luganda and he speaks next to no English......... You should hear us communicate!
He gives the nicest foot rubs ever
He's cute
He's cheap and he gives me discounts (I think this should have come first)
He gives me practical tips on how to improve my nails, not like I listen or anything, it's just nice to be told
He makes my nails look beautiful and that in itself is a miracle.......

I guess this is the point when I start with the other stories.......... Just realised there are no other stories. You'll just have to wait til I come round to writing the sequel of that ka story I started. Meanwhile, has any one read Memnoch, the devil by Anne Rice? I think her and Dan Brown ought to have a special place in hell for all their blatant blasphemy. I mean, if I'm going to hell, I really wouldn't want to be placed with the lot of them. In the off chance that God decided to change his mind about how evil I am, He'd just see then and then fail to forgive me! That said, I think they're incredibly talented, her books are a must-read (start with interview with the vampire or watch the movie if you can't read it). Ok, that's about it.

P.S: For those of you who want to find out who my nail guy is, my lips are so sealed so you can choke on it!

Wednesday blues

2008-07-30T15:55:00.005+03:00

It's fucking cold, I stayed up late completing a project that my laptop successfully gobbled up. So much for sleepless nights! My eyes are smarting, I have to do another sleepless night today to work on the project again and as if that's not enough, I older today. Ok, maybe that's not such a bad thing but I shall rant as I please whether I mean it or not..........

Anyhow, just wanted to say:
Happy fucking birthday to me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
*blowing out candles then sighing sadly*

P.S: Don't you dare tell me to think positive!

Truth

2008-07-28T10:32:00.002+03:00

It's funny how sometimes we lose sight of ourselves, completely forgetting who we are, seemingly over burdened by duty, too busy running far far away in the opposite direction from where we ought to be headed.......... Well, that's a story for another day. Today, I just want to learn about healing and letting go, to know whether taking the risk to face your worst fear and having that fear confirmed still makes the venture worthwhile.........

The pain is great, overwhelming and I'm far too afraid to feel it. He says to let the pain just wash over you and soon the healing will come. I wish I could do that but it's not merely a ripple, this pain, it comes harshly, without apology like angry waves and I can not let myself be swept away. I have to stand and fight for all I'm worth. Alone. Silently summoning whatever is left of my strength..........

I finally faced that fear and trusted him completely, I wonder now if that was a curse in disguise. No, he didn't mean to hurt me because even against his better judgement, he loves me completely. No, he didn't mean to but he did. It cannot be helped, it can not be undone. All I have left is my solitude and my strength, waging war against this angry tide

Drama in real life part 1: The strip tease

2008-07-15T09:27:00.004+03:00

I didn't really intend to do it, I mean, it's not like I thought he was serious or anything but it happened.......

We've known each other forever, he and I. I used to think he was proud back in the day and because I am proud, I couldn't be bothered to talk to him. That plus the fact that the girls were all over him like a rash. There was no way I was going to be part of that madding crowd........ Anyhow, as it happened, I was depressed because some sick demented bastard had broken my heart (no, he didn't dump me, or cheat on me so y'all can relax) and this guy, lets call him Creed, was there. It was one of those rare moments when you can be able to talk to anyone, even a stranger, without the fear of that weakness that comes with sharing pain and hurt and loss. Creed was there and I just talked and talked and talked. It was afternoon when I started talking, next thing I knew when I looked around, everything was pitch black: about 9 pm in the night. I couldn't believe myself. Hmmm.... so much for my reputation as an unfeeling bitch. I had let myself go!

I comforted myself with the thought that it was just that once off incident and it wouldn't happen again. The memory of it was great though, calming like the smell of warm bread or fresh laundry. It was amazing how easy it was to talk, with so little to explain and yet to be understood completely; to be identified with as opposed to being looked at in awe or misapprehension. We were not going to talk again I thought, so I just savoured the memory of it.

To cut the long story short, we talked. Again and again and again, until this arrogant, self obsessed, witty, insufferable, funny, proud guy had carved his own niche in my heart. I guess he'd be the equivalent of a best friend if there ever was such a thing but for me he was just Creed, a man who embodied a lot I had been searching for for a while......... Ok, that came out wrong but you know what I'm saying.

Fast forward to the present: In his office a couple of days ago, horny as hell and trying my hardest to focus on this project we were supposed to be finalizing. You guessed it, it didn't work. He's laughing at me the whole time, coming up with a ridiculous list of names of guys he thinks should get me laid. I ask him why he's making all these suggestions, is he too chicken to do it himself? He says of course not, how could I even think that? I look at him and laugh, not really sure whether he's playing or not. He looks at me and tells me how he knows I think he's kidding and if I just locked the door he'd prove me wrong. I head to the door and lock it, more out of curiosity than faith in what he's saying and wait......... He's quietly clearing his desk and I think, are we actually doing this? On his desk? When he's done, he looks up at me and tells me to strip. I say WTF?! I'll do it after you. He gets into this whole tedious monologue about how guys are and how they need visual stimulation, blah, blah, blah..... I'm not interested. I say ok, enough with that. Take your shirt off, I'll take everything off. He asks me whether I mean that and I think: This is his office, the chances of him actually doing it here are close to nil so I take my chances.
"Yeah, I mean it"
"Ok, cool"
He starts to take it off and his boss knocks on the door
Shit! talk about bad timing.
I unlock the door, boss enters eyeing us suspiciously. I'm struggling not to laugh and Creed is giving me this look that says if I laughed, that would be the end of me.
Boss walks out finally, I'm doubled over in laughter, I can't help myself.
I look at the clock, it's late and my boss is expecting me to hand in a whole bunch of work. I have to run.
"Look who's the chicken now, look who's running. See, I knew you were full of hot air."
I know he's teasing me but I want to prove him wrong anyway, make him eat his words.
"Choose the day and time, your place, I'll show you I wasn't kidding."
I watch him, waiting to hear what he'll say.
"You don't have to prove anything to me, I know want your limits are."
He has that smile on his face like he knows I'm going to jump right at his bait; I do.
"Maybe you're in for a suprise then."
He sets the date and I head out, half hoping it's all a joke but knowing full well I've gotten myself into a complicated fix with this man.

The day finally comes. I realise in the morning that my underwear is no where near sexy. Yuck! I think, pity everything is so practical....... I make mental note to upgrade soon and head out. I'm busy the whole day, running up and down doing a colourful combination of errands and almost entirely forgetting about our "date". I meet his girl, Liesl, late in the afternoon and we catch up on all the gossip and irrelevant details of our lives. I'm so absorbed talking to her, I forget I have to leave. I look at the time and I should have been at his place five minutes earlier. Ooops! I run out, trying to text him and explain the whole time. Then I get a genius idea: Food! Look for the nearest restaurant that has his fave meal, order, wait impatiently as they prepare it then head out again. Seems like there's a jam so the taxis to his place are not in the park. WTF? I take a bike (brilliant invention, that).

I get to his home finally, shivering but thrilled from the windy ride. We talk about nothing and everything as usual, as he eats (it worked, he forgot I was late). Finally, I'm tired of waiting and tell him, if we're going to do it we should do it already........
He looks up at me and laughs then says sarcastically how he thought it was a social call and what's with the rush?
An arguement ensuses til he finally relents and takes it off. Hmmmm....... The view was not bad at all, nothing like some eye candy on a cold night. He has a tattoo, one I didn't know about. It's cute and very him. I touch it a little, perhaps overly enjoying the feel of his skin then force myself to snap out of it.
He asks if he can have his shirt back, I wonder what the urgency is, it's not like he has somewhere else to be....... He shrugs and says nothing. I keep looking, drinking him in. Finally, he tells me it's my turn, I had forgotten and now the tension starts to mount...... I can't let him see that I'm nervous but no, I don't want music, just to have it over and done with. He laughs and says ok.

I start to unbutton the top, keeping my eyes on his, knowing if I turn away, I'll probably lose my nerve. I wonder if he's thinking of her, his girl, Liesl....... The top is off, I throw it and he catches it without breaking eye contact. The skirt comes off next, I throw it and he catches that too. Suddenly, the room is small and the air is cold and I realise like the Eve of old, that I am naked. He asks me to turn around. I do. Once. Twice.

I pray that the ground swallows me, I pray that he is struck with blindness. Nothing. I sit on his bed and start to talk, about how stupid I feel for doing this and how I want to just curl up and die. He laughs and motions with his hand for me to come and lie beside him. I don't budge.
"Come and curl up here."
"I want my clothes back."
"You have about, lets see, 27 minutes left. I was timing when my shirt was off..."
I balk at the thought of curling up with him, yet it's oddly appealing at the same time.
I am like a frightened child, perhaps because he knows me so well and can see right through me. I laugh at how different it would have been if it was any random guy.
I feel my body stirring to life, waking slowly. I sigh, snuggle deeper in his arms. He asks what I'm thinking.
"It's complicated."
"I want know"
"I don't think so"
"Tell me"
I sigh again
"No"
"Please"
Silence. It is loud and yet so quiet.
"Tell me what you're thinking instead"
"I'm wondering whether to tell you your time is up or not"
I laugh
"I guess you already have"
I look at him, he sighs
"Bummer"
I sit up, he's watching me
"I have to head home. It's late"
I stand up, he's watching me
Grab my clothes, wear my skirt, then my top. He's watching me
"What's so complicated?"
I look at him, waring with myself and decide to tell him
I open my mouth, no words come out
My thoughts are running everywhere: Liesl, him, friendship, me, bodies, honesty, Liesl.......
I speak, I sound choked
"I want you like fucking crazy right now and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry......"
My voice fades out into a whisper and I cover my face with my hands.
He laughs sympathetically and then says
" I have two questions"

To be continued.............

Flustered and frustrated.... Or maybe not

2008-07-10T09:17:00.006+03:00

I have a story. One on stupidity, raging hormones, best friends and taken men. Unfortunately, my boss suddenly remembered I existed and I have to work! It's sooooo unnatural. The story therefore has to keep......... Hope I'm not too bored to write it when I actually get the time.
Question for you guys though: Would you ever ask a friend for the go ahead to sleep with her HOT!!!!!!!!!! man if you are just too honest to go behind her back?

P.S: The guy in this case is only too willing........ Not that I'm complaining or anything

My immortal

2008-07-07T09:38:00.004+03:00

I'm so tired of being here
Suppressed by all my childish fears
And if you have to leave
I wish that you would just leave'
Cause your presence still lingers here
And it won't leave me alone

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

You used to captivate me
By your resonating light
Now I'm bound by the life you left behind
Your face it haunts
My once pleasant dreams
Your voice it chased away
All the sanity in me

These wounds won't seem to heal
This pain is just too real
There's just too much that time cannot erase

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

I've tried so hard to tell myself that you're gone
But though you're still with me
I've been alone all along

When you cried I'd wipe away all of your tears
When you'd scream I'd fight away all of your fears
And I held your hand through all of these years
But you still have
All of me

by EVANESCENCE

For Mon Bijoux, who sometimes lingers when I wish him away. I loved him, oh, so dearly! Maybe, I still do.........

Life

2008-07-07T09:21:00.001+03:00

Crippled by our own inadequacies
We fail to express
With the very breath
That we possess
The depth of our pain and suffering.........

We lie still with no will
To feel
And reel back
Into time
Where there was no grime
And perhaps the chime
Of dime clocks
Repeled the ghosts
That now haunt our thoughts........

We fail to realise
That God can utilise
The pain that we hide
And bind our battered sides.