The Move

I’ve moved too many times than I would care to. Just so I could have a roof over my head. Leaving everything I’ve grown attached to. Forgetting my side of the bed, where to turn on the light and having my routines scattered like dust in the wind. Permanent goodbyes to a place of solitude, knowing I will never go back and if I did, it would never be that place, my place anymore.

Would you even want to go back? I’ve asked myself. It’s hard to pack your stuffs into heavy bin bags up and down staircases till your feet are sore, but it’s even harder to turn back.

How faintly the memories of my first move surface. Ripples of excitement and nervousness coarsed through me. It was my first time in Hungary, far from home which meant I was grown—-or so I thought. How I look back at those years of brooding naivety. The era before my innocence cherry popped. I got older, moved on to…whatever older people do.

Today as I pack yet another bin bag, off yet another light and return yet another key to a place I called home for months. I’m reminded that home is not a place, and to turn back would mean embracing a myth of ritual, ignoring the lighthouse that beckons me to sail onward to wherever home may be.

Children of Light

Side by side, stand firm with me

children of light, come together as one.

Though the storms blows recklessly

children of light grow steadily

Black and Queer, Caucasian and Muslim

Children of light are not one of customs

like watered roses they wachs and bloom

for the riches of eternity is their heirloom

City Lights

The soles of my feet were tethered to the floor as chills creeped up my limbs and invaded my spine. Meticulously. I gulped hard, hoping for relief as hot saliva tickled the back of my throat. Surprisingly it works— for a split second. My hand managed to form a fist and knocked on the door.

The door is opened by a tall elderly welcoming face in white. He urges me to seat, then adds. “the senior drs will be joining us”. “Yippie, I thought, more fun”.

When everyone was seated, he began, ” this is an evaluation of your performance since you joined our team”. I swallowed hard. “You’re always there, polite. do what you’re asked but…

But?!

But you’re reserved. TOO reserved!. Lets hear what the others have to say

Senior Dr #1 In the beginning, you were great, curious. Active, then along the line you stopped engaging.

Senior Dr #2 Ditto.

Gulp. Gulp. Swallow. Swallow

senior Dr #3 This is a difficult department to work in and you’re adapting the best you can

The Bossman turned back to me, a little more pitiful than before, “Do you have something to say?”

In a bare whisper I started, ” I didn’t realise my personality was in question. No offence but you bunch are kinda intimidating with your loads of experience to my Intern status.”

I may have said more, may have stammered, may even have blacked out a bit.

I knew there was trouble on the other side of this door, but this went left, fast.

“This is not a criticism on you”, the Bossman interrupted my thoughts. “And I would gladly write up a recommendation for you”.

Write a recommendation? nice way to rip out my heart, cook it in cauldron and serve it back to me with wine and silverware.

I left feeling broken, but there’s no hurt that Yoga and the Bible cannot sooth. I have to say goodbye to this city’s bright lights I love but every now and again, bright lights dim and the time arrives to move somewhere sunnier.

Her Lost World

Innocence strahls in with the sun

to whence a golden girl rests her temple

fog has been erased from her mind

darkness plays hide and seek with light

Silence feeds into her thoughts

cleanses her memories of impure specks

Seeping joy from an unconscious plane

From plexus to plexus, excitation overload

Irregardless if it is real or not

She shifts her weight between toe and heel

waiting at a shore’s harbour

For courage to be delivered to her sandy feet

She could be anyone she wished

she could have anything she craved

so why did she always turn back

to revisit the flames torching down her lost world.

You are not okay

Alone, is what humans can’t comprehend. The first man couldn’t stand to be by himself, so he begged God to fill the empty void with a befitting silhouette. His sons mated with their sisters, what now is a horrifying taboo was then perfectly in order because man mustn’t be alone. The greeks held such frivolous parties where they inebriated on laudanum and made philanderous attempts at maidens.

Long before telegrams, people made tedious journeys on foot, or with an animal for several hours, just to connect with someone for a couple of hours, and be able to tell other about it.

Social media arrived, and it’d be false to believe it was still about the personal interactions, like Lilian in the neighbourhood, or bob at work, because the whole world is watching, at least the network of Intelligence the government uses to monitor digital blueprints is .

It’s no more about you and I.

We are part of a network that ensures that we will never be left alone. Isn’t that great?, isn’t that what we want?

No?

Then there’s something wrong with you, perhaps you’re the type who relinquishes on casual encounters with strangers, who’ll end up chopped up inside your refrigerator. Or even a stalker, whatever, I am afraid you’re not right you see. You don’t call your parents or talk with your bestie for lengths at a time.

You are not okay.

The rest of us are so perfectly well-adjusted. We crave meeting people we’ve lost contact with and catching up, especially so we can tell our normal friends and anybody with ears about it. We love to go to work and smile with our bosses and colleagues even though we’ve fantasied about slashing their throat severally. HAHA. But that’s normal you see, everybody does it but you.

As long as we don’t understand you, you are dangerous.

So here are some pills. Take them till your fingertips are numb, your pupils are dilated, and you laugh at the top of your lungs at every horrible joke. Take them until you feel liberated to talk about the colours pirouetting around your ego. Take them until you’re empathless.

And then you will be okay….like me.

F.E.A.R

With what my eyes have seen, the fields are lush. The streams are tiding from east to west. The moonlit sky migrating to a horizon. Buffalos hurdle to hide in caves. And sparrows high up the myrtle tree sings a song I fear.

A narrow window ajar, bright lights filtering through. I’ve come too far, not by my strength alone. One step heavier than the next, as though both feet were shackled to an anchor. Can’t see past my index finger. And I…

I should be very afraid.

The word FEAR keeps coming back around. Ironic how a simple four lettered word could cast so much shadow, it even holds power over identity, flashing a casted silhouette of doubt as an estranged former lover.

I am afraid

.

.

but what good would that do?

I can’t predict what’s engraved in the sands that fall through the Hourglass. I can’t speak incantations into the Wind and expect to extract a fortune. I can’t squeeze all that I am and serve to the universe on a platter. And I don’t.

I have a God that eradicates fear.

on A Myrtle Tree

And just like that

there is a man sitting on a myrtle tree

his body is feeble but his voice is loud

He sings the same song everyday;

Woe is the man who believes

in the freedom the world promises

for no such thing has ever existed

or will ever…

Sometimes he begins to fuss and wail

for no ear cares to listen

He should have given up a while ago

yet he campaigns even vigorously

Remove the scales from your eyes

so you can see in the darkness

There is only freedom

in the arms of the son of man

Days come and months pass

Sun shines and snow breaks

A child is born and a man dies

but the man’s mouth is never shut;

Open your lips and sing his praise

the LORD of lords is alive forever

drink from the living water he provides

and let peace rule your heart till death

The kids make fun of him all day

the young men think he’s drunk on spirit

the old men think he finally broken

since his family died a while back

I sometimes sit under that myrtle tree

let his voice serenade me while I rest

lately I started thinking of the possibilities

the man may be mad, but what if he’s right?

Wanted: Best Friend

It is truly scary

when thoughts develop lips

then speak,

holding real conversations

like best friends, both mentally instabil

Whirlwinds trapped in physicality

How bad I want one

even loners need friends to survive

one who will be there a decade after

no matter the race, gender or preference

One I wouldn’t try so hard to keep

or give reasons to stay

one that doesn’t care about roots of my tangled past

and the thick thorns isolating my heart

so long as my ideas dance freely

and emotions bloom with every feeling

And maybe I’ve had one or five before

At a time I couldn’t value treasures

because being open is still funny to me

but I’ll ask the man above one last time

For a treasure who will stay

and the grace to not fuck it up.

Happy New Year

Rest your head on my bosom, camaraderie

for we’ve swam long rivers and hurdled hills

we’ve known each other for 10 long moons

and I hope we will 10 x 10 more

I’ve come to you in times of crippling doubt,

you’ve had my back when I was singled out

and even when I couldn’t think clear

you pulled me from the other side of fear.

Let you head linger on my bosom a while longer

as we greet the sun at the dawn of a new day

beginning at the first day of a new century

I bid you not to part ways

lets start together, hand in hand

Fill this vase with happiness and tears

Sip from each other’s chalace

we can stare out of the window on rainy days

Wait until the clouds are replaced by rainbows

say you’ll honestly be there,

in fairytales and in the real world

because If I were asked to tell my life’s journey

it would start with me and continue with you.

Happy 2020 Bloggers, Readers, Visitors. Camaraderie.