The whole world in you

She sat cross legged in her room.

The world’s burdens did not rest on her shoulder

She was trying to find a way to sit with the world in her womb

Braamfontein

This town has a stale smell of all the people I held clenched in my palms.
My palms are glummy with sweat from those I have struggled to release.

Response to seeing the sun

Well it moved me to write this:

Maybe our hearts must break entirely so we can learn to feel how real feels like.

To feel everything, no alcohol required.

Sometimes I feel the good, the good sinks in and my soul dances in response to the rays

It claps along to the chirp of the birds and this feels so good.

I drag my“feels so good” knowing there isn’t a better way to describe the simplicity,

Of watching the rain fall ,but even better

Seeing the sun after two whole weeks of showers.

Knowing you were wrong for thinking that the sun may not come out again

Of course you never shared this fear with anyone

But God knew

You hung your clothes up and it out it came

You had to learn to dance with the sun for the first time ever

It was a struggle but once you forgot yourself

It was easy, still is. 

You couldn’t see the rays but you moved in accordance to where they struck

Whether it was your bare shoulders or you’re your nose

The only places that ever show evidence of your long love affair with the sun

Joy was injected into your body.

Full of life you bounced like a new born baby.

God smiled. You giggled. 

Box of ashes

It is not so much that I do not recall what was going through my mind at the time; it is what was going through my heart. Sometimes I feel like it is so far but it is so easy to bring the feeling back again. The heart just remembers the pain and all the joy at the same time. They work together see, like veins and arteries flowing to your heart, each needing each other, yet such opposites of each other.

The plethora of memories I have tried to keep alive, are fading like ancient photographs; moments in time, a little evidence of events, if only I could revisit the feeling. The presence is constantly adding stains on the photographs and perhaps one day they will be completely faded with only bits still recognizable.

I never want to forget, but I regret that I have to, as that is what life dictates. We must not live in those memories lest we get stuck there. It steals beauty from today. If today looks bland and colourless, we should fill it with the hope of tomorrow. It might be a beautiful day and maybe it may even rain, but tomorrow you may feel something more genuine than faded emotions that are aroused by a simple song.

It is a day thing, every single day. I affirm to the heavens to bring me an endless joy and I open myself to receiving the joy and joy I have. It is in everything and nothing. It is in me, somewhere but I suppose I would have to shave off some imaginary walls that I have created for my heart.

My heart was placed on a diet. It wants to indulge entirely in feelings but they are futile and feeble. They are like words written in pencil; soon they will fade, even though the writer intended that they last forever. The heart is perhaps in itself, like a child you see; it is pure, without contamination. Its intentions are always clear and good. It needs protection which is why we have to filter and filter what we allow it to indulge in lest we lose it. It is fragile but not futile.

So I recall a time when my heart together with fate led me to the marvellous bliss of drifting far above everyday life. I floated all too well on that bubble and it is a high I cannot find myself with my own efforts. It is a gift, a blessing, which goes on being a blessing long after the source has ceased to exist. So I do give myself permission to reopen that box, let the emotions fill the room, then close it again. I set it back into my cupboard, along with the many other things I have put to death.

Rant: The words that save

Oh the words that saved me from insanity and from my own sanity. Oh words that can no longer stay hidden in the crevices of my heart but pulsate giving me life again. I run along life hoping to get some kind of warmth and hugs and laughter and the laughter grows louder not because I am guffawing but because I myself am laughing at my own inadequacy to grasp the simplicity of life and how it should be.

We release thoughts of poison that slowly consume our identity until we can no longer control the act of negative thinking fuelled by comparison to those we cannot even touch because our brows now touch therefore we are no longer beautiful because we not prim, proper and straight.

Oh but the written word draws us back to that place where we can be us again. It brings us back to the words that God himself spoke to us when he exhaled his breath onto us at Creation. Oh dear God let your word be true, let it trample the whorish thoughts that so easily spill out of our minds, they themselves full of pesticide that seeps through unconscious mind leading us to believe in the sadness of our minds though our hearts speak only joy and vibrate from a frequency basing all we touch from our hearts with love which is a strong foundation that you so aptly described in your good word as a solid rock we can trust each time each the storm threatens our very existence that we may find light in that fortress, that our very minds would remain in that fortress and betray the seductive wildness that leads us to doom.

Sigh.

 

All filled up with no where to spill

How much of us still remains when we have read and read and read all these books. It is great to learn and adopt but it scares me when I adopt a voice, an author's voice in my thinking and in my writing. They inhabit your mind even if it is for that week, but where does the rest of the voice go?

And then you start writing hoping that you can at the least describe your experience with people and the world. You attach words to it, as far as your vocab can take you. You hope your words are important enough to be desirable or entertaining at the least (not ideal). Well it is hard to compete with entertainment, we live in a world of images. Imagination appears to be losing its charms.

I pray words stay alive and the millions of authors and budding authors who also experienced the wrecking power of a good book. Those who opened up their very selves and filled them up with someone else's thoughts and desires. Words are demanding, they desire your mind and your time. You travel to another world filled with these characters and places. You meet yourself along the way, in the paragraphs and chapters. You cry sometimes and laugh too. You laugh along with fellow word lovers.

What my feelings sound like

Corrine Bailey Rae

This is maybe my favourite "Slow Jam" Artist of all times! Her music captures my emotions when I cannot find words to describe them

                                          https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ARFnffnuDQU