The Reason

this is the reason i do not forgive. 

this is the reason i do not forgive.

to forgive would be to accept my shame. 

to forgive would be to accept my shame. 

to acknowledge that i played the role of naïveté. 

to acknowledge that i played the role of naïveté.

the reason forgiving myself is hard.

this is the reason.

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Empty.

Blood and Rain.
History faded.
Or rather diluted.
A silent cry.
Heard in only one realm.

An empty grave.
The scene of death all that is remembered.

The Mystery of Love.
An empty grave.
A story defined before it began.

Ah… Music! Sing to me…

There is this app called Spotify! I believe it could most probable be better than sliced bread. No really! The cloud sync is spectacular. I mean I open my laptop and it asks if I want to switch control between from the phone to the laptop. 

Then the gems I have found on it!!! Legit OLD sloop – I mean Pepe Kalle, Papa Wembe, Kanda Bongoman, Miriam Makeba, Awilo Longoma 

No. Like really. 

Malaika, Nakupenda Malaika… Coupe Bibamba, Kemisile…

This app. 

Whose idea was this?!!!

Too Legit!!

The symbols. 

The symbols we adhere to. Do we ever really stop to think about them?

The cross. 

I was in a cathedral the other day and I wondered. Why do most crosses have Jesus dying on them? I thought in light of Easter – why don’t we have symbols of the empty tomb? 

Have we become so fixated with the death that the miraculous thing that happened next we only acknowledge Early April or Late March. 

What would a symbol of an empty tomb look like anyway? It might be a bit too heavy to carry around your neck, non? 

I am curious though… Maybe it is my limited knowledge of the Bible that leads me to ask these questions. 

If there were no symbols would we forget quickly? We already forget at a rather exponential rate anyway.

Just a curious thought that has been plaguing me.

Lover of words… 😍😍

I sat there, in the midst of dust boxes – the smell of parafin reeking from the freshly painted walls. I could hear my dad coming down the stairs. If feigned all the concentration I could muster.

My nose was buried deep in the only Sidney Sheldon that I kept picking up – The Naked Face – to this day, I have no idea what that book was about. The truth is it was all an act. An act to hopefully one day hear my dad proudly talk about how his daughter reads. 

Maybe that is when it all started. May be that is when my passion for words started. My intense love affair with creating and dreaming up stories. I wrote one novel in Primary school. A child’s take on the world. High school, I wrote another – my friends were writing and I also wanted to be associated with writing. Senior High, I wrote the only book I was intensely proud of – it got lost! 

My brain’s capacity to create stories out of thin air still amazes me. My HCI class assures me that this is a common trait with most humans. We like to see things where they are not. We dream of princes and happily ever afters. Of stories greater than our own. 

I love words. They speak to me. They are my language. They break me and they build me. I am in love with words. 

My My. 

Starting Over… 

You know, the truth is there might me no such thing as starting over. In the human mind anyway. My human mind. 

I have developed the uncanny ability to grudge up things from my past. Failures especially. I am good at that. I am the queen of that really.

When you read things like God remembers that no more – comprehending that is hard. Knowing it is harder and believing it is next to impossible. 

The impossible. It is hard to believe in the impossible but I really wonder why?! Why should it be hard to dream. Because dreams can be broken. Stolen even. Never tell someone you dream. They will steal it. But what am I saying. 

In ten days, I get to leave 28 behind. As a memory. A thing I do not remember anymore. I get a system reset and I start a new year. Technically, that should be when we dish out the happy new year cards…

I wore this Tee shirt today. I got it at some conference – about a company of people who want to make a difference in the lives of people who struggle with depression, self-harm and addiction. It has a quote from the founder about being the other person – one day being the ONE person who will make a difference for someone else. 

Maybe it is selfish to wish that someone else would be your ONE person. No, not in a Disney romantic way – in a this life is hard kinda way. More than be your ONE, remain your one. Because we all know life moves on.

Anyway, I am wearing the shirt, I support the cause. I never did. I never understood. I would not associate myself with them. What do I know about pain enough to make you desperate enough to end your life. No. I do not know much about that pain. 

Maybe that is why I am still here. In this place. Stuck. 

10 days. We shall tell of a different story.