TRUTH IN THE SMOKE

The tires screeching and the leaves ruffling, the rays of sun sliced up by the window panes warm my feet. I’ve created a depression on my mattress, must have been sitting here for far too long. The air is still and melancholic.

I can feel my heartbeat getting shallow by the second. It wears a heavy blanket like its winter inside. I can’t breathe but I’m still trying to hold my breath. I’m alive but I already RIP’d inside. Its all grey, a complete reflection of my soul.

The purple wall ahead of me is the canvas I paint my worst fears on, success, the self judgment and regrets. My muscles ache every time I reminisce; they strain upon what I should have done and snap on what I did. The negative voices seem a little louder today than other days; more overbearing and convincing.

I’m not enough, I’m not going to escape these feelings, my name falls from their lips like the saliva they wet their pages with… I lack the peace I crave for; unaware of what triggers such low tempos.

The stripes of scars carried on the surface haunt me whenever I sit in silence. The bar is home, right by the bartender, at the corner where no one will ask me my name. No one will ask if I’m okay and I won’t have to lie. I won’t have to forge a conversation to mask the abyss I’m sinking in.

I’ll stay awake until morning asking for rounds to suppress the demons that won’t let me breathe. By the bar is safe, I see people like me. We are all escaping something or something is escaping us.

Be good or be good at it. The latter is easier. The work needed is insurmountable- being good, doing good is easier. People aren’t bad by choice, at least that’s what I used to think. We are a product of what we were exposed to in our childhood, what our parents decided was appropriate, what the society dictated was right and experience.

We learnt how to relate with others by the way we related to the first people we knew. We lived in our parent’s confines of fear and what was morally acceptable unquestionable. So maybe we are not to be blamed, we are not to be ashamed.

After 23 you are not to blame your parents for your flawed nature. I say this with less conviction everyday but I still repeat it so I don’t wild out- get lost in it all. I’ve tasted that freedom before, got intoxicated by it. Got careless with it.

Lost all the f@cks but was given some at the end of it. It’s free but not entirely. Most people will judge you but only because they don’t understand you and somehow want to be you.

I’m not perfect, not by a long shot but most people believe I am. I used to believe them too but I knew my truth, I couldn’t switch it off. I can’t tell them of my chaos. I’m afraid to reveal the battles I faced that painted me with flaws. They won’t understand. Or perhaps I’m scared of the judgment.

I’m scared that the wounds are too deep and they feign healing. I’m afraid that the slightest provocation would make me bleed and I wouldn’t be able to clot it. So I go down in this spiral hoping one day I would stop it.

Once you come down from your high, you’d feel clouded, you’d be sad again you’d care what people say and said. You won’t be perfect anymore because the voices got to you. You’d wonder why you were born to this. I believe suicide victims are the bravest, what is the point of life if you relate to pain more than power, why live to suffer when you got milk and honey waiting for you?

My high? it comes from long walks in the greens, travelling to new cities, sitting at the counter of a new local, shopping with a black card (watu hutoa wapi sponsors jameni, asking for a friend), rooftop conversations with a blunt on my lips and this purple wall that has seen me at my worst and somehow still stands by me (doesn’t really have a choice).

My lows, is when my breath becomes louder than my heartbeat, when my breath stains the top of my upper lip, when I can’t silence the voices in my head, when someone tries to control what I believe in and when I can’t save myself. So meditation saves me, the chirping of birds, the sound of the wind, being utterly alone (scares me that I will never want to get married) and gin…Gilbey’s gin…..

9 COMMENTS

  1. I will immediately seize your rss as I can not in finding your email subscription link or e-newsletter service. Do you have any? Please let me recognize so that I may subscribe. Thanks.

LEAVE A REPLY

Please enter your comment!
Please enter your name here