The Garden

It’s the beginning of yet another week, I know

I know the dark calls to you sometimes

I know you walk down roads you know you shouldn’t

I know you observe your reflection through a jumble of shards

I know you’re worn out, tired of reliving patterns of painful choices

I sense you feel hollow at times

like life is teasing you, dancing in front of you,

but escaping you somehow

i know you live in the disconnect between where you are

and what’s happening outside of you

i know how much it hurts to live there, in the divide

between what you feel you are, and what you wish you could be

The sun has kissed your skin and you have inhaled it with complete trust

and you sometimes move without knowing what’s next

at times it feels paralysing to live with yourself.

I know you’ve worked so hard to control the outcome of your life

that you forget to meet yourself in the quiet and breath yourself full again

that you live in the shallow end and you forget to go deep,

breath deep ujjayi

you forget there is wealth of abundance and trust in you

i know there are places in yourself that you do not love

the parts you wrestle away

you visit them them from time to time, hoping they’re not there

i know you long to live in bliss

and when you arrive there you are so alive as if everything around you

is telling you yes, you’re home.

but i know shadows come while you’re asleep

and drag you down the familiar landscape of fear

I know you wonder if the light will ever return

because you’re tired of this upbeat dance between the two worlds.

you’re learning to taste heaven, grown wings

you’re accepting the difference

between sun soaked mornings and dark forests

you are human my dear and are allowed to be in both places

you are not damaged

you are not failing

you are allowed to be lost in dark rivers

be gentle when doubt comes, when fear chokes

when darkness debilitates you

spend special care to cultivate the garden of love when you come across these dark corridors.

know that you are offered the chance to tend your garden

the dark offers you a chance to love all the places you’d never dare

all the places you curse

where we deprive ourselves of love is where we need it most

when the dark comes , tell it what it what it wants so badly to hear,

You are loved.

Antionette Dreams

All my wishes are far from real

nothing in my reach, or here to stay

I may have been hibernating all my life

now awake as the arms of my creator paints my smile

A beautiful smile it is and yet no heart reflects

Porcelain beauty, Antoinette dreams

my soul is enchanted

I am a delightful breeze

to boy, girls and squirrel friends everywhere

wherefore can my mind wander outside my bubble world

Porcelain beauty , antoinette dreams

kids fall in love for all I am made of;

smoothened wood, lace strings in equal parts

molten plastic all over their itty bitty beating hearts

precious wonder I could never have

Every form I take , a marionette of sorts

transforms into magnificent architecture

The theatre is flooded with ceramic faces

freckled cheeks, gaping mouth. enchanted dolls

pointy noses like nobles of days old

My eyes as wide as the hollow in my thorax

Close your eyes and you may hear

a tally of ventriloquist tales

attached to their chest like the strings on my limbs

and silence so provoking it has it’s own rhythm

After all the glam and glitter

An exhilaration that make my smile ache

the stage lights dim, curtain drawn

Left alone in a broad misty chest

a tinge of cold in the piece of me

where my Antoinette dreams may well be buried

Image Source: The-maksimov.livejournal.com

The Involuntary experiment

It is not unusual for the internet to give out every once in a while, however I do throw a little bit of tantrum for the first few mins and then grab a book. Normally in just about the time it takes to feel really weird tension about the situation, the internet is back. If the internet outage lasts longer, I would have to practice mindfulness and honestly, who wants to do that?

Last week we had terrible internet service. I’m talking every other day lasting for at least one hour . I felt so dishevelled and uneasy and basically resolved to the most weakest action imaginable, complaining.

And then the situation escalated.

Sundays my routine starts with our fellowship. Lunch thereafter and when we get home I stretch across the bed and read blogposts till I doze off. However, sometime in the early evening of last Sunday, the Internet gave out. Luckily there was a festival in town which I didn’t want to visit but given the lack of internet, I figured by the time we’re back, it’ll be all dandy—- except it wasn’t.

It extended to nearly 3 days. In this period, I went through at least 4 stages of emotions

Impatience

Have you ever seen something you really wanted but it was at the other side of a densely thick glass? My best analogy would be when our dog occasionally meets our bunny . they are separated by a large bunny cage, so the dog begins to whimper and quiver.

He then lashes out and barks. This was me between Sunday evening and Monday. I couldn’t help being bratty which resulted from my impatience.

Fake hopefulness

This is when I got silent partly because my husband spoke to the company and they assured us they were working on the problem. Albeit it was more soothing to hear that other houses with the same internet provider in and around our vicinity was affected too. I know that sounds wrong but I believe it’s also wrong to suffer alone.

This emotion is similar with impatience in that it is ego-driven, that’s why it’s fake. An overgrown ego (and the telecom) telling me that it will be over soon. Except when it’s not, I’m back to square one, complaining. A little unhealthy psychological projection here and there.

Acceptance

By the end of Monday till Tuesday, I had made peace with it. I used my mobile data more knowing that it could finish any moment and I would be in complete amish mode. I came home in the evening and there was still a network interference so I shrugged, watched a series on my phone and slept.

Anxiety

Right in this moment that I’m writing, I feel anxious although I woke up to stable internet service. I’m anxious that It could go off at any time. But more-so that if it does, I will start from stage one all over. I preferred stage 3.

Subject B’s reaction

My man on the hand, kept his composure the entire time and wasn’t once tempted into using his mobile data to watch anything that wasn’t on social media. I want to say that it’s because of the European Championship game. Our tv wasn’t affected. Maybe he would have felt the impact if he couldn’t watch his game, or maybe he’d have gone to a friend’s. Either ways, I never want to find out.

One thing about me is that I feel the emotions projected by people. Yes, tears drizzle down my cheeks while watching movies even though it’s not real. That’s why if he had been upset as I was, I would have been a wreck altogether. His energy kept me calm and brought me to acceptance quicker.

Final notes

On reflection, there were other sub par, hardly distinguishable emotions. Yet these four, I couldn’t ignore even when I tried. I also did learn about patience in these dreadful days. That’s a word that keeps coming to me recently. I feel God trying to force patience into my life.

Thanks for stopping by. Been a minute since I checked up on y’all. I hope you’re having a chill mid-week. Let me know if you’ve ever had to go a day or a week, voluntarily or involuntarily, without internet and how you handled that in the comments below. Chao.

A Lost Voyager

I remember being driven around but not wanting to go home

I remember poking high ceilings with silence, unheard

I remember breathing into my heart, separated from my abdomen

and expiring blazes of firework.

I remember anomalies mingling with the soft mosturizer on my skin

I remember being octracized for being more ebony than chocolate

more wolf than sheep. A blank river filled with myself.

Like a voyager,

My body became a fabric taking illiterate roots

I dreamt if baltic ember beads, red as rust they were

smell of butane in the air

flanked by buttercup and daised skies

I remember calling out with glassy eyes

knowing nothing, embracing everything

searching for home or the sound of familiarity

but most of all, I remember being lost in my soul.

Image credit: designyoutrust.com/poetic-haunting-illustrations

I too have something to say

Breaking news, beautiful people, I’m back!. If you’re wondering what I mean by that, I honestly have no inkling. But today, I too have something to say regarding cultural silence and violence towards women.

The other day, My dad posted something about why women’s modesty is equal to virtuousness on our whatsapp group. My sister challenged the post with some strong feministic views. Now if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s ignoring conflicts. I’m not proud of it. Albeit, this banter did trigger something almost like a primal defence system in me, Much unlike any conflict. This may have a positive association with an issue I’m still dealing with.

If you’ve followed this blog for a while, then you may remember that I was raped at about age 7 by an uncle. I don’t like to bring it up, and it’s not a ploy for sympathy. I thought that was in the past, but apparently it resurfaces when a women virtues is questioned.

Permit me to derail yet again. Y’all know Nigeria right? the country that I’m rumoured to be from. We tend to be late, however the first feminism movement completely flew past us. Todays, several Nigerian women are what I call “Quasi-feminist”.

I simply do not value gender roles. I don’t care about whose submissive or who makes the most money. So, why did this simple harmless post about women’s choices of outfit churn my tummy into chucks? Then it hit me, this had nothing to do with the post, and everything to do with my father. I can’t come to terms that my father much like many Nigerian men still believe that rape is either partly or wholesomely the victim’s fault. Much like he may have not come to terms with his step-brother’s action. This is a conversation we need to have but I can never see it happening. Maybe in my next life, maybe.

The #MeToo movement bellowed the voices of women that were living in silence. Rape has been an epidemic in Nigeria for years but it has never been brought up as a societal concern because women are silenced against their violators and programmed to believe that it is a consequence of her promiscuity while the offending gender are left on the bench .

Many victims will venture through life never reaching their finest, most distinguished potential, because conflict especially with the opposite gender sets them back to the moment they got assaulted and they are crippled with a need to be submissive in order to survive.

As a writer, I feel like something has been stolen from me every time I want to connect with my childhood experiences and find blocks rather than creative flows. This doesn’t mean I’m bad, I’m acknowledging that there are seams of my memory that I don’t have access to and that really sucks.

My final point is harsh but there’s no polite way around it. I’ve probably penned it in poetry. They say children grow up to be their parents, and that is my biggest fear. I intend to triumph all the many different ways I am messed up, really because my children deserve to not grow up around the same personalities I did.

Thanks for stopping by for one of my self-therapy sessions, but I have to disappear again. I hope you endure my sadistic poetry for another week till I get back to creating real content.

Auf weiderschauen!

The language

Puff it once.

Let the smoke dance on the skin until you sucks it back like vacuum. And your eyes overflow with tears like a breaking dam. Pain is a painting of haunted memories you treasure. But if you blood turns black, you’ll risk playing Russian roulette with demons.

Living in a society with borders is like dancing at the top on an active volcano, all the while, expecting it not to erupt. Life is dangerous, just listen to the broken whispers at the end of every delayed heartbeat. You’ll never know if you’re tiptoeing on borrowed time.

After many sacrilegious prayers and resounding amens, most people never find their truth, probably because they’re yet to tell the the truth to themselves. Schade

A flame has no shadow, just like the blurred line between existency and spirituality. You may stand next to it, observing, imitating, fusing with it until you understand the cast that scatters your soul.

Eggshell, bland and typical, your charm is able to discern. Your palms are empty but you conjure up extra smoke and mirrors till your bones start to grit and quake. If you’re lucky, someone calls out with you behind their own shadowy mess.

There is a language I write, from an unorthodox and extinct book it is. Some say it is the language of the dead, others call it the language with no name. Everything I write about you, is what I see looking in the mirror, but the reflection I admire is in the way of my expressive hands.

Between an Artist and His Art

You know me

Every coarse line and grit  on me

was borne from your mind

I evolved from squiggles, shades of you

Yet to explore dimensions of all that I am

 

But doubt  hauls into your mind

It trivializes me

Claiming that I, as a reflection of you,

We are not good enough

So you conjure these scowling faces

They befuddle  your judgment

Irrespective of your arduous attempts

We will never be good enough

My value in your heart fades

as you turn your back on me

 

 

 

My heart bleeds,

for I, as a reflection of you,

We are of  good opulence

Surely not for all,

Only for the few crazy enough to discern the mind of a creative.

 

Soon you realize these voices were a hoax

The inebriation of hypocrisy disseminates

Contrition arrests you, so you complete me

And I make you whole

I am attuned to you

For you love me undeniably

You flaunt me so all may see

An ethereal smile blooms each time

You look at me and say;

Behold the beauty I created

Judge not her imperfections

for there is no bond greater

than the one between an artist and his art.

 

This piece is originally about the struggles of an artist, but I was moved to a deeper meaning of it. We ourselves are creations of the omnipotent God, and if we could take so much pride in our poem, photographs, books or paintings, then surely we can acknowledge the depth of his steadfast love for us. God bless us!