No Promises

Do not promise me a fairy tale. No! Please don't make promises. Because my heart is silly, she'll believe you.

There was I time I dreamed of the luscious kisses of knights. And princes whose kingdom was trapped beneath my bosom. Who'd guard my smile with truth and soul.

I wanted you to swear by the stars in the night sky and the moonlight trapped in the salty lake. That my name is the only melody. And the rhythm of your heart beats in acknowledgement.

That time is not yet passed. Fantasies still plague my sanity.

Dancing in the rain and kissing you while the great ocean jealously rages by. There can be no antidote for such portions.

So please don't mention such foolishness to me. Because every word you say is like a sorcerers' curse. It'll bind my naive heart like a poet's muse.

ANGRY DUST

I'm seething with anger. 

I am so angry that I am sweating in this cold and lonely room. The stuffiness clogging up my mind is making it difficult for me to hear my own thoughts.

I'm annoyed. With both of us. You and me. Of course it's mostly with you. The only reason I am pissed with myself is that I have reached the maximum level of annoyance with you, and there is still some unappropriated anger in reserve.

Why am I angry with you? Aaaarh. What kind of question is that? Please. The only sensible thing to ask me now is whether there is even a single reason for which I am not angry with you.

You have really pushed my buttons. See, you have reached here.. the brim! It is only because it's you that I'm bothering to even bring up this issue. If it was anybody else, they would only be seeing dust. You know, the dust I would raise behind me as I leave tuuuuf!

Why are you still just there like that? Do I sound as if I am singing? Please, I am not. So you should just begin apologizing now now. Before you blink and then all you see will just be angry dust.

Philosophers are but fancy insomniacs.

I have been sitting behind a blank screen for hours now. At a few minutes past one in the morning I quit pretending that I was asleep, or that I was loving the warmth in my bed. And I got up to power on my laptop. It’s 4:36 AM now, and the blank word document I opened before the witching hour is still blank.

I should turn off the TV so that I can hear myself think. Instead, I am debating whether or not to switch channels. Should I let CNN play on in the background or move on to Aljazera? BBC has better African coverage, but they are not showing clips of Jon Stewart on the Daily Show. See, I’m so smart I can relate with western media without losing my African-ness.
What does that even mean?

Well, I’ll drink to whatever helps keep the horror of my sincerest thoughts hidden in my subconscious. I am afraid to look within, because the things I have done and the dreams I abandoned are lurking there, waiting to torment me.

I begin to tap on the keys. Telling myself that I am in control. That my writing doesn’t have to be as sincere as the voices screaming in my head. That it can be as beautiful as the plastic smile I have perfected in the mirror.

I miss the innocence my soul had. When I knew myself. When I knew to define myself. Whom have I become? It’s time I switched off every other sound and began discovering myself.
Maybe I should watch the drama on Afro-Cinema. I might enjoy frowning at the misfortune of the main character, laughing with the drama queens and wondering at the thin line between virtue and vice.

I am young. They say youth is innocence.
I am older. They say age is experience.
They can't be right. Perhaps they do not know what they say. They might be as clueless of fact as the lazy analysts whom local media houses have taken to parading on our screens every evening.

Comedy keeps reflection at arms length and the conscience at bay. And there are things demanding my attention far more adeptly. Like my faulty economic stability. And global warming. And political ignorance. Do I have a false sense of security? Maybe I should be editing my resume or picking a self help book.

Would they look at me the same if they knew how confused I am? Or if they could tap into the real cause of my insomnia? Would I be sleepless if I had more money? Or if I had more fake friends to show me how to concentrate on appearances and goals rather than the things that really matter?
What are those things that really matter?

Does anyone else think that philosophers are merely fancy insomniacs?

I originally published this post on the Storymoja Festival blog.