The one after the other one…

I’ve been staring at my computer for the last hour… I’ve got three papers to read and one huge homework to hand in by Wednesday, but my mind will not align itself. I speak in tongues. It’s a thing I do, when my thoughts get out of hand. I try to force myself back on track. That verse that talks about capturing every thought – this is my way of putting that into action. I do not know if that is theologically correct, or the intended use, but it’s been helping.

But tonight, tonight, none of it is working. I’m an empty shell seated staring at my newsfeed and listening to more pieces of my heart fall into the deep crevices of my soul.

Juggling between a broken heart and a grieving one takes a lot more strength than seems possible right now. But it’s all grief. It’s all loss. It’s all being in a place where raw and grit gnaw at each other continuously. Facebook is not your friend, not right now. Facebook is a place your mind goes on trips, little inward facing adventures that have no bearing in the presence yet etch themselves into the fabric of your reality.

I watched Black Panther for the second time today – second time in 48 hours, I might add. I loved it even more this evening – but then I also found obituaries this evening. Obituaries with your picture in them… I’ve been fine for most of the week until this moment. This moment when I cannot remember when I last saw you, or what our last in person conversation was about.

My vision is blurred right now, so likely, I’ll blame any typos or grammar issues on these tear-streaked cheeks. But this is life, is it not? Navigating through uncertainty hoping that your feet are steadfast and your hope is sure.

There are brief moments, moments when light penetrates the grey fog that has shrouded me. Those moments when I’m in a theatre watching Black Panther and wondering if actors know what their armpits look like in IMAX, or M’baku erasing that thin line between theatre and reality – I’d like to write a review, but may be not yet. That obituary made me realise that tribute is a fancy term to help me slowly cope, while the former dredges up memories of BBC’s 6am beeps that were preceded by Radio West’s obits. Or was it Radio Uganda… Why would that play so early in the morning? Why would old people listen to it first thing in the day?

Dear God, I really do not appreciate it when life throws multiple punches with out a single time out. Well, I do not appreciate any punches to be honest – let’s just do away with punching all together.

Sigh… this is not finished, it’s bedtime…

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