Indelible Vision...

The main area of the canvas was covered in a blood red stain. In the centre of it was a black object, somber, a lone human represented by a line. It looked like it had been striped off any sense of dignity, a lost soul of insignificance that had given up on the world around it. The artist had chosen the world around it to represent blood, a wilderness of uncertainty, penance in an Armageddon of sorts. The dark object a reflection of the self within and the darkness of the human succumbing to what it was surrounded by. He watched it with some interest.
‘This is how you see yourself?’ he asked.
‘This is how I feel,’ she replied.
He was silent, observing. He let his mind absorb the moment. We got to these places in life when we could see no outlet or instance for reprieve. We were drawn in by a force of loneliness, loss and illness. Our disease was life itself. We felt and saw darkness in every corner of the universe as we fed on it as much as it did on us. Unfortunately in the long run it had a wealthier appetite than ours and fed at our soul. This was eating at his friend’s and he could see it in her work.
‘There is no light in this room,’ he commented.
‘There can’t be when we get to this place. Light is our darkness, this is what we have,’ she replied.
‘Perhaps because we think this is all there is, this is all we know,’ he said silently as if he hadn’t heard her.
‘One with darkness doesn’t mean we are dark. It could be a place, a passage, a period in time,’ he continued.
‘Or it could be our eternity,’ she said.
‘I guess that would depend on if we controlled our own destiny,’ he replied.
‘You don’t think we can. I think we can make ours. This darkness can become ours if we choose it to be.’
‘Then my question to you would be how did we find it. No one chooses helplessness. It is when they get there that they discover it exists. We are a people that find places in life, peaks and troughs laid out in our path. By the same token that life can bring us into darkness it can also take us into the light.’
‘You are doing it again, you are playing with my mind.’
‘I am calling a spade a spade,’ he replied.
‘And I am telling you that my spade is darkness now,’ she replied.
‘No argument there. It’s just that the operative word in your argument would be now rather than eternity. No one knows that far ahead.’
There was silence as they returned to their thoughts. It was almost impossible to resolve arguments such as this. They resonated from centuries and represented two sides to a coin.
‘I hate you now more than anyone I know,’ she said quietly.
‘I know.’
‘But you give me hope,’ she smiled.
‘This I know too.’
‘What would you call it?’ he asked, he was curious.
‘I don’t know. I have very many things in mind but I can’t find the words. What do you think?’
‘Indelible Vision.’
‘Sounds deep, profound,’ she said.
‘It should do,’ he said ‘This is an important time in your life, let it mean something.’

Take me back...

Or should it be take me back if you can. Silence, I’m all that has been said and there’s nothing else you can do now but take me back and hope she believes you. Over and over, in your mind I lurk, I am one dish that is often served with purpose and intent. Fair enough you were provoked but was I necessary? Hear the headlines of my fanzine, watch your mouth before you hurt someone, think before you speak, keep silent if you have nothing worthwhile to say.
I sail over rooftops as people hear me from their bedroom when grown men scream at each other. I am the words from your lips that have made her frowsy and a slattern. Don’t you know that even the sybarite treads cautiously in my presence? Pounding your fists on your head won’t resolve this situation, I warned you about me, a rogue of sorts imprisoned until released to lash out at those I’m directed to. Even those who grasp pieces of me, stray fragments through thin walls shake their heads in disgust. Tone it down they say, that temper of his would kill him. When you were young you had all the excuse in the world now keeping me out there is letting the fox run riot in the pen.
Take me back and seek forgiveness, take me back and avoid retribution. Fury may have caused me and perhaps on this occasion I came out the wrong way but after me follows sorrow. I work better under different circumstances and I know for certain these aren’t them. Okay it was spontaneous, a rush of blood to the head, you were bitter and I was spewed. However when one suffers so does the other and when this happens I prefer being a thought than the real thing. So take me back if you can for I am the words you should never have said.

Temporal Enemy

My patience is your fury, my absence your state of ignorance as we have not become enemies by war but merely a season of time. Solitude seeks this path and for the victim the matter is personal. I bear more from this burden than you can ever imagine so do not let your bones wither in despair or the curtain drop in your wrath. We both want what’s good for each other as your journey is as important as mine.
Between places is uncertain and sometimes difficult to explain. Fend off the delirium temporal enemy when tough love becomes necessary. Take comfort that in our green veins runs the blood of he that knows best. He separates two to create one, as we become the pieces of a greater mystery. Our mirrors of perspective shadow our blindside, they are the flat foot that imprints the pavement; a raiment of distaste to the vulture that craves ignorance, a cherry on the pyramid to the flirtatious dove of wisdom. Your judgment of sorrows is but a sigh in consideration for if I fail the alpha I shall have no breath forever. Hate me my temporal enemy but love my spirit of faith and courage. This I call a fair trade of peace for we aren’t solely bound by the thoughts we inhabit as the deed is fulfillment.

Epistolary to the future

You cannot put a time and place to it. Perhaps the tears in your eyes are the giveaway that you still remember. The truth is no one tells this story better than you do. Do we really come of age, find out that our past was meant to be for our future to hold a purpose? Hard to explain the experience, for who knows what story they wish to tell until they try their hand at it.
There once was a time when my mission in life was to seek out those places and people from my dreams. Eventually I could hear myself whisper, ‘fait accompli.’ Only to be followed by, ‘Now what?’ It was as if finding these places and people brought me to a full stop. On this river road to nowhere one easily became aware that one wasn’t better than the world they had been given to be a part of. It was as if whatever one desired had already been provided for the time that they needed it. I began telling myself fervent is the nature of the man that ascends beyond the stars. I would listen to the heart within and it would give me the sounds of places I knew of. Suddenly I would be able to hear them from a distance in many volumes. Train lines overhead, a bright afternoon, tracks lain out miles ahead of me and all around me, would be this continuous pounding noise. Then would come the shadows as one crept beneath the tress. I would remember vividly because I was there. Inside this nest that rattled silently the sound of my own voice, ‘the landscape is now different you can’t return to the past because before you matters more than behind you.’
When this wouldn’t suffice, I’d ask myself what an epistolary to a future me would read. ‘It was eons ago but it seems only like yesterday to you. The things that you do not know of will become known unto you when you need to know of them. The times when you wait can be idle, distant and much alone as they are real. Do not fear for you shall connect the dots when you realize that you are still just I. It is amazing that when one has all that one has asked for one still needs more. You see it is a constant thing in one’s life to see if future would surpass the present and past. As I write to you with ignorance of who you may be, I have that which I do not know of that is why I seek that which is already mine. The truth to you my future is that I am the light in this darkness I created for myself yet I carry a light to see through it. I do not write to you old fellow for criticism of who you once were. Not my desire, for I never kept you away from the safe house you now inhabit. On the contrary we created it together, me looking towards you for inference because you alone are where we wished to be. No not me, I pencil affably because as time has revealed we still remain avid of learning about us. I shall leave you with one piece of advice. Keep those hands of ours real by trying them at different things for in my humble opinion it was the way I got to be you. If you call the future what you wish it to be it shall come to pass as you say. I celebrate alone today as you open my letters to you for if I knew this much then, it must be amazing what I know now. Take care, I know I am meeting me again where ever you may be and I am glad because I dearly hoped for this day to come to pass.’

Basket Case...

On this lonely stool that I berth my squeaky behind, do I timely separate fear from the self. Before the rhythmic chimes of the turning pump I look unto fear and the dirt it accumulates. Fear is my corruptness. Had I learned anything in this enduring odyssey it is that to reach the purpose I serve, I must lose the fear to find the self.
Here indeed is my ruckus, ye have said that a man is cleansed when he is bathed in water, yet if water is mixed with wine, oil or meat does it make it clean? I think not. On the other hand a drop of ink in water stains its color as does a pinch of sugar its taste.
Ergo is a new wisdom proclaimed! I am as clean as the deepest seas with experience like the things that lie within its depths. I am not corrupted but reflect corruptness like the colors that surround me. Peace is the blue sky of my favorite morning that brings the sound of the quacking seagulls. Joy is the yellow and orange in the setting sun, a brightness that lasts for a short while. Darkness is a deep moonlight of fear that hides the truth in a black sea.
Ergo I shall take precaution in these words of wisdom to proclaim my wings of freedom. I am still the clear water of the sea but my color before man is a reflection of what surrounds me. I am no basket case before him but simply a reflection of one.

This child of mine is my favorite...

A quirky brainwave led by a shuddering lapse of concentration. Have I been fair or just been manipulated? I saw calamity in their eyes and pledged allegiance in love. From within though, was a sharp gasp of conceit! It is true then that we do have favorites. It is true then that out of many we will pick a few.
There is no dark shadow to dart beneath or a fissure below to seal off this weakness, for none is loved less but one is favored amongst many. Effortless is that which is given for the favorite. A heartily endeavor and sacrifice is made for others so that they are not forgotten. I am the shameless and passionate fan for in the favorite I see myself as I see them within me. Not to say otherwise for the others, it is just that this particular one remains a mystery.
So I plead my cause and at this junction I take furlough from thee, not to sully that which must come to pass. No one can say they do not have favorites. Nor can they guarantee that there is no exception to the rule as far as all are concerned. It is not based on what others see or how we are judged. It is quite simply just how we feel.
Dare I say then that in the context of oblivion it is also the will of our maker to give accordingly as he sees fit. He is in us as we are in him so why do we moan the good fortune of another. And so I plead my cause humbly in this new light continue to express gratitude in what you have received for know from within that you are favored amongst many…

High Wycombe...

The fog I had seen through the bedroom window for miles finally cleared to reveal the hillsides that gave Buckinghamshire its air of beauty. I wandered down the path for a while and then skirted a sinuous route behind several bungalows before breaking in stride to cross the small road that led into the cul-de-sac. The grass, so green in the gardens, was groomed like the beard of an old man and it left me wandering what it would be like to thread barefooted on it. In the mid afternoon I could hear the children playing but could see none of them. I walked blindly through the small village mesmerized by the peace and tranquility that stemmed from the rural countryside. It felt like the moors but with houses, equidistant from each other as a finishing touch to an already polished landscape.
I felt the urge to scream, even at the expense of running and breaking the silence but I kept my peace deciding that just the mere thought of this action gave meaning to the moment. I had read about it in books and even had the opportunity of witnessing it in films but living in it was different.
My Mum had departed three months earlier having made the journey with me to ensure that I settled in university and I was now left to discover for myself the true identity of my aunt and cousins. Things had been different with my mum around. We shared the beauty of the countryside and compared it to the home we had left. At eighteen I was poised to make my own decisions in life. I had settled for electronics at Manchester having failed to make it into aeronautics because of the lack of places on the course in Loughborough. Oh! How I had wanted to learn about planes, to fly planes and to wear the uniform. Yet even the serene hills of the midlands could not assuage this desire. We had driven for endless hours over hills in search of the university to no avail. In the end the next best thing to aeronautics was electronics.

BRIGHTLY SHUN THE MOON AT NIGHT…

The trumpets blared at us from the television set as the carolers sung their hearts out to celebrate Christmas. It was my first Christmas away from my parents and I wondered what the festivities would have been, back home. I was not complaining about moving to England and the dazzling scenery of the countryside but the difference in the values of the people was certainly something to ponder about.
As I sat at the table listening to my cousin’s banter I reached for a chocolate sweet in the basket.
“You should not eat chocolates they are bad for your teeth. I taught my children from young not to eat chocolates because it is bad for them.” I heard my aunt say.
“I don’t think having one chocolate once in a while would kill me.” I responded shocked at what I was hearing.
“Well that is how it usually starts and then before you know it you have bad teeth like most of the young people around these days.” She continued, her eyes looking at me directly across the table.
“Mum, leave him you know how these people are, we call them bush people over here.” I heard one of my cousin’s say. “What he does after he eats is usually go straight up to his room and start reading. I have complained that he has no social skills but he says nothing. Rarely have I seen a boy so quiet.” She said teasing me to say something.
“Well over here if he cannot talk then he cannot have anything in life. This is not back home, you know.” My aunt said.
I took the comments in my stride feeling like a jackaroo on his first day out wondering how it was possible that one could be talked at in this fashion. Was it possible that I had to defend my reasons for eating a chocolate? There had been a time that my aunt had even complained that I refused to watch advertisements on television. She told me that they enabled me know what to buy in the shops and so they were compulsory to watch. I found this bizarre having known all my life what I wanted before going to the shops given the amount of money I was going to spend. I had explained to her that it was not the fact that I did not want to watch adverts but that I used the opportunities to switch through the channels and check for other programs. Well this did not get me far because I was reminded again of how little time I had spent in the country and how little I knew of what was required of me. In the end I was shunted into a world of silence to listen and understand what it took to survive in England.

I walked through the small tunnel that led into High Wycombe town passing a fellow traveler and his Pomeranian dog reflecting upon the challenges that had managed to manifest themselves in my newly found life. I never heard my aunt or cousins talk about the beauty of their surroundings. They never seemed to see the life that lay beyond the intellect that man had granted himself. I was no fanatic of agriculture but no one could discount the absence of pedology in a place that changed so rapidly mile after mile. Even the narrow roads where a feature that could not be overlooked, hedges grew in close proximity to the road that climbed into a small forest in which one could lose one’s self in just seeking for adventure. I pondered at what would have been had I grown up in the area. My hunch was that hopefully I would not have turned out as my aunt, stuck in an artificial world suffocated by rules in society that were as misguided and hopelessly insular to what the human mind was capable of. I had no doubt that no one could miss the beauty of the scenery but what was the response to a society tied up in rules, class segregation and whims born from ignorance. Where they truly happy with themselves? No doubt their world would come crumbling down if one threw them into a dimension that they had never experienced before. Or maybe I was the loser, an outcast in a place that I did not belong to, seeking to be part of a society that did not welcome me. I listened to my thoughts meander through the meadows that climbed into the hills and I felt alone in my new world. I had dreamed of England, back in Cameroon wishing to seek my birth roots and a place that my parents had told me was were I would garner the best of educations and yet deep within my heart I questioned the people and their motives. Surely not everyone could be like this? I did not know many people in the country yet but having started making friends at college, I begun to wonder whether they had drawn the same conclusions about me. Was I too quiet? How could one talk about what one did not understand? Here I was eating heavier food, getting used to the pound and at the same time understanding how to manage my own bank account. I was filling the gaps as I went along getting to know town after town and appreciate the mannerisms of people. It was a challenge to deduce when someone was being sarcastic or serious, and even with this load bearing down upon me I was still getting the tenth degree about my life on Christmas holidays. I had talked to my teachers in the faculties, talked to the people in the banks and even began socializing with some friends yet I never felt as though I needed to change myself or put on this collar of class. Surely my aunt and cousins were wrong about England? If one struggled so much to be something that they weren’t how could they be truly accepted in society?
The doldrums of my world kept my mind busy as I circled the small town courtyard and I decided to make the long trek home. I simpered at my own ridicule deciding that time would tell and life would grant me the answers that I desperately needed.

Today I like to think that High Wycombe was a place in my life that sent me to the eighteenth century and a time of carriages and the beauty of the countryside. My values in life remain intact having learned from the many years I spent in England that all was not what it seemed. Maybe as a child I had received the teachings of Christ differently. Perhaps as God said in the bible he had known all along before we were conceived in our mother’s womb of the type of people we would become. I had taken the right measures to ensure that I did not fall a victim of this misguided pride. In the spiritual world I had learned to seek the seat of humility to gain recognition through my actions rather than words. It had churned my existence making many friends in life and understanding the cultures of many different people.