Love and Friendship

We all need some love. And no amount of money is worth a true friend.

The Language Of The Heart

 

But who needs a reason when the language of the heart speaks so loud?

I don’t mind that she leaves her underwear on the floor most of the time. It’s not because of some bullshit feminist mindset, it’s just that I do it all the time. And if she can clean up after my mess, why can’t I feel okay to clean up after her?

When I asked her to marry me, I knew she’d say yes. But it was equally important that the stakes were high. We’d come through nearly a decade of love, hate, distance, discovery, and self-examination. I knew I was never going to be enough for her dreams. I knew I’d had to work at myself. I also understood that she had her demons and would need my help. The reason why she was reading books on marriage lately. At least, she was trying- actively. Me? I still needed to recede into my cave to pull the strength to finally pop the question.

And I’m glad I did when I was most vulnerable.

I don’t think vulnerability is sexy. Neither is it the new cool- to be in touch with your emotions and all that media gender equality crap.

I like how real she is when she opens up to me. It freaks me out when she looks at me with those big brown eyes. It’s terrifying. Knowing that she could do anything for me. That she would turn her back on her family in a split second just for me.

That’s what terrified me when we knelt down in the room that evening.

She was going to say yes to my introverted mind. She was going to say yes to my years of baggage and loneliness. To all the times I had asked a girl out and either broken up or been broken. She was going to say yes to the future conversations that our families would use as a vent to pull skeletons from years ago.

Or not.

About the time when she was the cause of all my life failure. Or the time when she’d wanted me to move in with her and be her slave on the other end of the world.

God, I was so naïve.

But her kisses make sense now. Even though I wish (secretly) they’d be less- I understand. I understand her. I understand her need to be close- emotionally, mentally, spiritually and physically. We’d both wanted this for so long. For so many years, that having it for those first few days drained me.

But she’d wanted it more than I’d ever had.

For that, I love and respect her. I respect her need. She deserves my best. Not because she’s special and loving and cute and hardworking and prayerful and really, really kind.

But because I love her.

I don’t even know why I love her. For all these years, I’ve dated other women. I’ve kissed other women. I’ve imagined myself building a family with another. I’ve been infatuated, I’ve sprawled with desire over women more physically attractive, more sensual, more emotionally stable (include other unnecessary relationship criteria).

I’m not proud of my streak. But I’ll own it any time, any day. Because all that has made me who and what I am today- me.

I don’t know why I have chosen to spend the rest of my existence on earth with her- in my intellectual respite, I’ve computed the logic behind my decision. The answer?

Nothing.

There’s no reason why she’s the perfect fit. There’s no reason why I know I’ll have to talk about my feelings and fight and believe that we can grow and change together. There’s still no reason why I have chosen to start my family with her.

But who needs a reason when the language of the heart speaks so loud?

Originally published on our Medium Publication- Self-ish.

The Thing About Growing Up

Or what happens when you get a little bit mindful about your choices

I know you don’t read a lot of my stuff and…
I read your stuff- she cut in.
Pause.
Huh. Really?
Yeah.
So…you read about
the time when I got my heart broken and I cried for a day?, I said, half hoping she’d say no.
Yes, my Mum replied, I read that.

So, I had a Whatsapp Call with a special someone today. We’re a typical Cameroonian family: we talk about plans for the future without trying to express our personal, usually differing, ideals; we spend christmas together — the first few days blissful, except for when the undying skeletons creep; we love each other but, when anyone says “I love you”, there is this, slight, very, uncomfortable, pause. *clears throat*

Ergo, the idea of a conversation in which we’d talk about my career, plans for the future, my dissatisfaction with my role as the first child, my opinion about her career, my relationships, and my take on responsibility, goes further to cement a singular thought I’ve been having:

I may actually be growing up. Dammit.

You see, this year: I had the best birthday gift, I gained more gratitude for the people in my life, I loved, I destroyed ( single handedly, and I am not being self-deprecating here) one of the strongest bonds I had ever forged with a friend- a brother. I’m still reeling from that loss. I’ll be okay. Thanks for asking.

I’m still incredibly amazed by how much I have been able to handle these situations.

Disclaimer: I had help from colleagues, friends and family. I just like to think that I am a hero. Meh.

Anyway, my mother and I talked. Remember the part where I said we were a typical Cameroonian family? Well, I lied. What can I say? I love me some drama. *wink*

We’re atypical. My siblings definitely have their own narrative about this, but, from my vantage point, having parents who actually make an argument for their decisions in your life, isn’t exactly “ Cameroonian”.

Normally, if you’re smart, you become a medical doctor. No questions asked. If you don’t make it through entrance exam- you do biochemistry, ace it, get a scholarship and leave the country. And oh, if you’re the first child, don’t forget to reel in your siblings when you get “established”. Whatever established means.

I have a tendency to replay important conversations in my head- text messages, meaningful encounters- like that time in the restaurant. I seem almost out of my body listening to myself — fragmenting my thought process. Of course, in time, these recollections become flawed. I try as much possible to milk them before I can’t trust the details.

If the one with Mum today is fresh, then I can rely on my conclusions:

1. You’re never too old to be a kid

I have come to terms with the fact that my mother will always worry. Same for my father. It was a pain the size of a hard drive at some point in my life( read: until very recently). Now, it feels more like a piece of fish in my spacious teeth- it’s annoying, but I can take it out when I want to. Plus, it feels sort of nice, you know. *smiles*

I feel really old at 27. Well… sometimes. But, the people I hangout with make me feel like a kid. All the time. I love the balance. It keeps me in check. And I know I can always count on my mother — she’ll worry, complain, try to make me get a ‘safe’ career path — because that is her job.

2. Sometimes, you need to stop being a kid

I’m currently working with a team that suits and stretches my skills. I don’t get time to “relax”. The work is challenging. For a lazy, stubborn writer like me, I looove ditching projects half-way. Once I don’t like an idea- meh. Dead.

With work ( and with life), I can’t do that. The team counts on me. The mission must be completed! (Did someone say Metal Slug?) I cannot run to my mother and say: sorry. I know my parents will always (want to) be there for me. And I get it- I won the parent lottery. I am certain that when I my own child, it will be the exact same feeling. However, in gratitude for what they’ve done for me , I need to get my life together. For them. For me.

3. “Sometimes, you need to leave your family, so that you can be stable enough to help your family” — hK:

A friend said that to me months ago. I was worried about how best to get to my siblings on ze search of a career. Isn’t it ironic how good I am at proffering advice I have a hard time heeding?

Today, I told my mother about how much she had no choice when it came to worrying about me and my siblings. And how I did. I have a choice. I cannot let my first born son incontinence ( is that even a thing?) stop me from living “my life”. I have goals, dreams, and plans. Lists of books to publish. Podcast conversations to have. Scripts to finish. Ideas to test. Places to see. If I get hung up on solving family problems ( I don’t have that many, trust me. I just take them a tad too seriously), when do I get the time to make my dent? I need to chill.

Inner self: yeah dude, chill ( I just watched Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure” *grins* * does 3 second air guitar solo*

4. You always have a choice about how you feel

Like when I said “ I love you” at the end of the conversation. We’re not living ze dream. Our bank accounts aren’t sputtering passive income. My job isn’t “fun”. My parents are not “the world’s best parents”. Heck, I don’t even have a couch! ( I’m working on the couch part though. Thanks Q. 🙂 ).

After my recent break-up, I internalized my pain. It was a lot of pain for me. I justified it with messages, texts, contexts. I even went back to work with more vigor. Then, I had a one day crash — and a one week crash. Then I wrote this.

With my return from ze dark side, I started mindfulness: I label my thoughts — useful, useless — depending on what they are at the time.

I don’t need to “delete” the thoughts. I just need to know — is this useful? Is this useless? That’s it. It takes practice. And I am pretty bad at it ( getting there…). But I know this keeps me from replaying unnecessary conversations. I may not be the happiest person on earth, but I know I am responsible for how I feel about whatever happens to me.

I still have a lot of things to figure out. I still want to travel and write. I still want to have epic conversations (even though my LGG4 gave up on me and I lost months of conversations and pictures that I will never recover * takes deep breath to calm himself down*). I have a lot of things I need to work on. And, I have someone who will die for me if she needed to.

I know she won’t read this ( she actually hardly reads my work. I mean…come on…why are you reading this self-deprecating renegade ramble?), just know that I love you Mum.

And I love you too for reading this far. Thank you.

This is not to all the Mums. This is not to all the friends who make our lives worth it. This is not to hard workers and sweet colleagues. This is not to adorable siblings and best friends.

This is to you who finds a reason to be grateful and to keep being better at growing up.


Tchassa Kamga lives in Buea, Cameroon. This part of the country just got its internet reinstated! Previously, he’s had to travel a long distance to post. However, this was written in his pyjamas. At home. Under myopic influence.

He’s learning the intricacies of curating events and documenting them at the fine dining restaurant and cultural hub- IYA Buea. He has three episodes on his podcast . He also takes blatant pictures on Instagram.

He co-writes with C. Befoune ( he has a not-so secret crush on her) on this publication — Self-ish . Their goal is to share the lessons they’ve learnt from multiple sources in the domains of Self-improvement, Content Creation and Human Relationships.

Easily get him on Twitter.

 

What Happens When ‘They’ Have Faith in You


Click to Check out my Station on Anchor!!

After spending over three months without access to the internet, I can comfortably tell you that my life went on normally — sort of. I found out — among other things — the following:

1. My fear of failure easily leads me through a cycle : despair, then mild depression, then the search for the easiest exit.

In secondary school ( and even during my undergraduate years), I could do “mini-quits” — where I’d disappear from school from a couple of weeks, totally immerse myself in whatever new interest I’d had, then return for exams or catch-up with notes from my classmates.

Eh, good times.

Because I was smart enough to pass tests and major exams, no one noticed the momentary world I’d need to swathe myself through my moments of resistance.

This had always worked for me. Then I became productively accountable to another human — I got a job. What I found out with an employer ( who actually cares about you) is that you can’t climb into a self pity and stay home without showing up for work. You can’t carry a sad mane around the office and expect smiles and pats on the back. You can’t deliver sub-par work and expect cakes. Accountability demands and upgrade in dealing with self-inflicted despair. Which leads me to…

2. When you have people who expect much from you, you tend to do much.

“No expectations, no disappointment”– the popular maxim goes( I hope it’s not as popular as my brain thinks it is). This holds true for expectations in others — if you don’t expect much from anyone, you hardly get disappointed with anything that happens. You know, because you didn’t exactly root for or against his/her ability to achieve anything. This, my friend, is safe.

Too safe.

My boss expects a tonne from me. So do the members of my new family aka colleagues. I was navel gazing and licking my broken heart ( yep, doing it for the nth time), forgetting to see how much they’d invested in me. I almost irreversibly let them down.

The fact that you’re reading this means I didn’t. And that I have learnt more important things about love, life, work, family and friendships. Things like…

Real friends get worried when you quit too easily. They’re not afraid to tell you in your face.

Real friends don’t sugarcoat your laziness. They don’t make it a mean joke either.

Real mentors don’t babysit you. They show you the way. You have to walk it.

Weak ties are powerful. They could pay for your airplane ticket. But you’ll never know if you stay depressed in your room.

Business plans are important. Learn how to write one. It could save your life. Or fund it.

Same for life plans. “If you don’t know where goal post is, where do you shoot?” ( Somebody said that. I don’t remember who. 🙂 )

Resistance is real. Acknowledge it. Respect it. But do what you must.

You are responsible for how you handle your emotions. 

I now practice mindful meditation- I label my thoughts: “useless”, “useful”. I’ve stopped draining with replays of “useless” conversations in my mind.

If you think you don’t have friends, maybe you’re right. But maybe you aren’t a friend either.

 We all have 24 hours. You get to pick your family, gain weak ties and garner identity capital. It’s important to learn how to let go, how to be honest with ourselves.

Guilty as charged. 80% of previous paragraph comes from Dr. Meg Jay.

I have always rushed over my issues by writing every itty bitty tiny things that happens to me. Now I know better: everything takes time. Heartbreaks. Disappointment. Loss. 

Because we see our neighbours smiles and carry on doesn’t mean all is well. 

It’s better to stay on the road to recovery than to rush (with the mind) to the end. The whiplash may be lethal.

And love yourself. You’re worthy.


Tchassa Kamga lives in Buea, Cameroon. This part of the country just got its internet reinstated! Previously, he’s had to travel a long distance to post. However, this was written in his pyjamas. At home. Under myopic influence.

He’s learning the intricacies of curating events and documenting them at the fine dining restaurant and cultural hub- IYA Buea. He has three episodes on his podcast . He also takes blatant pictures on Instagram.

He co-writes with C. Befoune on this publication — Self-ish . Their goal is to share the lessons they’ve learnt from multiple sources in the domains of Self-improvement, Content Creation and Human Relationships.

Easily get him on Twitter.

The Day I didn’t Want to Talk To Anyone

The Bimbia Slave Site Captured with my LG G4

I’m scared of the direction my life has been headed in the past couple of months. I dropped out from my graduate programme. I took my first real job working with a small (but impressive) team where we’re singlehandedly sculpting the cultural landscape of the country — the potential is huge.

My poetry collection sits in this same computer unpublished. I haven’t posted anything on the internet in weeks.

Oh, and I got dumped. I could tell you about how painful it was. Or what I wish I hadn’t said or done. Or the lessons I learned or how much I would miss her. Truth is, up until recently, I thought I had ‘survived’ this. I hadn’t. I may not. In fact, given my propensity towards extreme emotional engagement without building the initial required foundation upon which most long term relationships are built, I woke up a few mornings later and sobbed.

I cry when I watch emotive movies or read texts with similar properties. I cried when I received a surprise birthday cake for the first time with my name on it.

I still consider myself cold and unemotional. I’ve trained myself to not express surprise, fear or elation unexpectedly. Dealing with subtle forms of rejection in secondary school and during my first years in the Uni gave me that skill.

That morning, I sat up and prepared to head to work, I don’t remember the exact sequence of events that led to my sobs, but I felt a deep sense of loss, like my reason for existing had been stolen. I could not find words to describe what my mind didn’t comprehend. As I struggled to make sense of it, I muttered to myself in hope that words would soothe the excruciating feeling that boiled in my abdomen. It made no sense. Yet, the tears flowed. They were hot. Enough to make me stop. Enough to let off a little of the pressure from within. I’d never cried over a breakup before.

Great. One more item off my bucket list.

I washed my face and wore the adequate thespian features. Then I left home.

Because that wasn’t the day I couldn’t talk to anyone.


Last month, someone on twitter interviewed me for her dissertation. She said she’d come across my writing on the web and her work focused on black writers living on the continent. Another amazing writer said I was quite a talent. I felt important. This is not to say that I have a bad case of low self-esteem.

Because I do have a mild case of it.

I don’t think I am particularly handsome. It is for this reason that I feel very nervous in front of anyone’s camera.

I don’t think I am a good writer. I sometimes fear that I may die and never accomplish my dreams. Of course, you will tell me it is probably a legitimate fear that everyone has. Honey, I get you, but I am not everyone.

I am me. I’m scared.

I feel like a fraud. I try hard to hide it behind jokes, and smart talk ( boy, do I steal from books). Which is why it takes me a long time to trust anyone to open up and really get them to enter my world.

(Fun fact, you ( yes you reading this) probably know more about me from reading me on the internet that most people in my immediate surroundings. That’s how much of me I am able to hide from everyone around me)

On the other side of this deep fear of disappointing my inner self, I also have a sense of things I can do that no one else could. I play with words in ways that never seizes to amaze people around me. I speak two languages and I ( sort of sing). I am also sort of funny — when I’m not depressed.

As you can see.

I am very much in touch with the things I don’t like: I find it hard to do work that is algorithmic. I thrive with creative tasks. However, I have recently observed that even heuristic tasks if given constraints, offset my juices and literally- believe me when I tell you- render me totally incapable of making coherent sentences.

Yesterday, during a workshop, I had to create a story from a theme I absolutely hated. I think my brain died for the next half of the session. My ideas mortified instantaneously.

But, it wasn’t because I was scared of dying alone, unfulfilled and without dreams that I decided not to talk to anyone. I was because I had had enough and I was exhausted. For the first time in months, I’d reached the trough of my mild depression and I decided I didn’t want to do anything. Except this.


When I woke up that morning, everything was the same; the car horns through my window, the sun’s sly smile pouring through. My eyelids were heavy, but my stomach too.

“I could read a few pages before I go up there”, I thought to myself as I grabbed the Samsung tablet on the table.

A journey to the loo wiped the thoughts of another dive at the warm covers. It was my special moment with myself. While I did my business, I flipped to my ebook app, ‘Born Standing Up’ was open.

As much as I’d never paid attention to Steve Martin’s work as an entertainer, I noticed that his writing gave me insights into his life that would never leave me. I quietly continued my not so challenging multitasking ordeal.

8.15am

I knew because my phone alarm started ringing as soon as I got into the room. Steve was saying something about Nina Lawrence and her change of name. But I knew I couldn’t afford another sluggish read.

8.30am.

Fifteen minutes couldn’t have gone this fast. I knew something wasn’t right that morning the moment I started freezing during my workout. I wasn’t unlike the rushing antelopes away from forest fire deep in the country. Or the birds leaving the island before the volcano.

Even when I took the cab, my head moved with difficulty. My smile felt plastic. I could hear my voice. Even I didn’t believe my destination when I told the driver.

In a sudden rush, I wrote an email to my best friend in over 11 years. The network was shitty but I was grateful for Gmail’s HTML version . I told her what I was going to do. I know what I wrote in the email, but I couldn’t believe I was going to do it. When my phone rang and I saw my superior calling, I silenced the device and turned the screen face down.

I wasn’t in control anymore. That was when he told me what we were going to do that afternoon.
End of part one.


Tchassa Kamga lives in Buea, Cameroon. This part of the country hasn’t had internet in over two months. So, he’s had to travel a long distance to post this. He’s learning the intricacies of curating events and documenting them at the fine dining restaurant and cultural hub- IYA Buea. He has three episodes on his podcast . He also takes blatant pictures on Instagram.

He co-writes with C. Befoune on this publication — Self-ish . Their goal is to share the lessons they’ve learnt from multiple sources in the domains of Self-improvement, Content Creation and Human Relationships.

You can easily get him on Twitter.

My first ever #spoken word trial is on SoundCloud!

 

1-zi9bczftg5cojqxhgstq6qWhen I read this text in March, I felt like I had to give it life. Even if I didn’t have the technical skills required, I couldn’t help it.
And even when I did, I let it sit in my computer for all this while, gathering digital dust. I feel the time has come for me to let the world know what I can do and to judge me for it.

This is just the beginning. I would love to get your feedback and suggestions.

It is in French. But do not worry, I have another one prepared in English- a text another wonderful Ghanaian blogger wrote.

They are the words of a mother, saying goodbye to her child. Probably because she ( the mother) will be taken away because of the war.

According to the author of this text, it is the image you see that prompted her to write that piece. That she felt connected to the baby.

Credits:
Text: Anne Marie Befoune ( www.twitter.com/befoune) Tu Ne Te Souviendra pas…click to read.
Background Audio: Phenakist – Wasting-my-young-years_instrumental

How He Killed Affection

pexels-photo-14303
Let him tell you of heartbreaks. Of tears he hid and dreams he killed. Of the memories he replayed long after the kisses died. Let him tell you of rejection. Of unrequited love. Of emotions suppressed and denials endured. He could tell you of the time when she said: “This is not working out.” Or of when she needed space to think. He will tell you with a smile. While you hold your throaty lump tight. He will tell you the blouse she wore and the dog that strayed. He might tell you of the date. If you’re not lucky enough, he may only remember the hour and the minute.

Let him tell you of failures of the heart. Of the laughs he faked and the lies he told himself. Of the persona he forged and the mechanisms he acquired. He may tell you of the letter he wrote…and burned. He may tell you of the unsent SMS, or the cancelled voice note. He could recount the old pillows that saved his teary tale in cold, liquid embrace. He will tell you of the body weight he hasn’t been able to gain. Of his incessant penchant for jokes and laughter, of his book drug abuse and his writing exorcism.

He may mention his new resolve. His understanding of love and the day he killed affection. He could paint the clouds, but he won’t. He could tell you about the song on Trace at that moment, but he won’t. He could tell you of the matching shoes she wore and of the speech she had prepared. Yes, the speech, he will. He will tell you how at that time it made no sense to him. How he laughed with his boys and texted the next available glass heart. He will not tell you of the supper he left cold. Of the desires he left enflaming. Of the rage he carried, chiefly against fiction, for making him believe in soulmates.

Let him tell you of the decision he took. Of the vow he made. Of the smile he wore as he said to himself: I’m too old for this shit. As he deleted the pictures and edited his memory- a task he would tell you, was a waste of time, but that “I had to at least try”. He may mention that it was the day he realized he’d changed. The day he saw his own worth. The day he finally admitted to himself that he would never find what his was looking for, simply because he was always looking.
It was the day he said, earnestly, without reserve and believing with his soul: fuck this shit. I’m done.
——-

What a comeback post huh? Did you miss me? 😀

Do you prefer being single or being in a relationship?

cute-cuddly-toy-cartoon-costume

Someone asked this on Quora and me being the self professed advocate of the lonely life, I answered.


I am a 26 year old straight Cameroonian male who has had his heart broken.

And broken hearts.

I have had short (two weeks), very short (three days), and month long ( 6 months) relationships.

I’ve dated at least 5 women. I don’t keep tabs. It was a painful time I prefer to not remember.

Some, were exhilarating.

One month ago, I made the conscious decision to be single .

In my relatively short existence, I never thought I would ever be comfortable with being out of a relationship.

With that in mind, my answer would be biased. Infact, if I were you, I would not read this given my inexperience and lack of facts to back my claims. I speak for myself, hoping you will gain something.


On Being In A Relationship

I love the feeling that spreads through my body when a woman who cares about me touches me. I love the affection, the intimacy and all the perks of being together- living together, sharing inside jokes, feeding each other and being children again without a care in the world. I am a sucker for “love”.

Or at least, that is what I thought love was.

I have come to understand that it takes more than the happy moments to build a lasting, equally rewarding relationship with anyone. Whether it is a friend, lover or parent. It takes a lot of energy and commitment. And most people who are in a happy relationship may not not seem happy to you.

That is the difference between making a choice to work on a relationship and thinking that relationships work like “magic”.

The amount of effort required to communicate, to compromise, to fight our natural selfishness is one that needs a daily practice.

I think anyone who has been in a serious relationship can tell you about the dark times and what it takes to overcome them.

That said, the reason why I am not in a relationship is this:

I became self-aware enough to accept that I was not ready to invest the amount of energy required. That at this point in my life, I would like to focus all my energy on being creative ( blogging, gaining skills, podcasting etc) and building a business around my interests.

It is sad that I took this long and hurt so many people to accept this basic truth.

But I am happy I did.


On Being Single

I love writing. Especially poetry. I love thinking too. Which means that I tend to spend a lot of time by myself. Where I come from, and from my experience, I find it hard to getalone time when I am in a relationship.

Plus, there are the messages , the phone calls, and the commitments. I suck at being in a relationship. I had just never audited myself and made the decision to lay off that part of my life.

I don’t drink alcohol ( well, maybe once in a month or so), I don’t smoke, I don’t do drugs.I don’t gamble. I am not a stud- which means all I have is my sour humor that may or may not attract females ( remember I said you shouldn’t read?)

This means a lot of my free time is spent on reading, writing and meeting people. I run a podcast which takes time to record and edit . I was only able to start this podcast when I became single. And I looove sharing my thoughts.

I get braingasms from the comment section- literally.

However, I get lonely too. Sometimes I want a hug, a kiss or…more… 🙂

But then, I believe you can’t eat your relationship and have it. I chose to stay alone for a purpose. And I am fulfilling that purpose.

We may not have the same purpose, or thought pattern. And that is fine. I made the call. You should make yours.

I get moments of weakness when I see that someone is attracted to me, or when I get attracted to another person. And that we could get together.

Then, I remember who I really am and the kind of person I become in a relationship.


So, which is better? Being single? Or being with someone?

That, my friend, will depend on you, your environment and your DNA.

But know this:

  1. Your thoughts, goals and dreams will change. I know mine have and they will.
  2. Same for people you get in a relationship with.
  3. Communication is vital to maintain a relationship.
  4. Self-awareness will lead you to make choices which correspond with your DNA. ( Yes, I totally ripped this off from Gary Vaynerchuk [1])
  5. You will usually get what you deserve. Usually.

Of course, life has a way of being itself. But if everyday , if you so choose, you get better at knowing who you are and choosing yourself and the path you want to walk, you might end-up enjoying this funny thing called life.

I wish you all the best.

Remember that the most important relationship,is the one with yourself.

Footnotes

[1] GaryVaynerchuk.com – Family 1st! but after that, Businessman- a dude that Loves the hustle, people & the @nyjets – @vaynermedia. Tasted wine for years online!

“They that speak not” #Poetry

Source: skitterphoto.com

Source: skitterphoto.com

Fear they that speak not.
Watch them. Learn their ways.
But, be not like them.
With extended utensils, dine.
From a distance wave.
Embrace, wrapped in kevlar.

Fear they that speak not.
Listen to their words. But watch their bodies.
The lies and treachery permeate.
The sickening urge disgusts.
Be careful, my friend.
Mistake not sneers for smiles.

Fear they that speak not.
That watch you muddle through the holes.
That whisper hate and splatter make believe compliments.
Back handed. Muddled with rotten mind egg stench.
Carcasses of broken dreams.
Dorians from within.

Fear them that speak not.
Neither good, Neither bad.
That watch with plastic expressions.
They that coat truth with malice. And stain honor with envy.
Watch as Karma serves their cursed soup.
As the unknocked wood comes crashing from the wall of fate.

Fear them that speak not.
Remember, my friend, to embrace them that speak.
The good. And the bad.
Those with hearts on their sleeves.
Take their counsel, albeit.
With pain; With caution.

From your enemies and your friends.
Find yourself.
Find your true self.
Take hateful words- make true assessment.
Take loving words- make potent commitment

Now you know why I left.

Leaving you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don’t mean this in a “happy” way. More of in an I-should-have-done-this-a-long-time-ago tone. We had a good time together. A great time.

The fact that I am writing this expresses how much the last couple of months meant a great deal to me. You took care of me. You really did. You were a mother, friend, and a lover. You looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered.

You made me believe that I could be loved. Not that I don’t have friends and family who love me, but, I had never imagined the effect the touch of someone who isn’t your blood could have on one’s mood.

Do you remember the time when I was sick and had to stay home all day? When you cooked in the neighbor’s house and brought for me? We stayed home all day and you dabbed my forehead with a wet towel.

Only my mother had ever done that for me. Loving you was the only thing I wanted at the time.

At the time.

At the time, I was struggling with who I wanted to be and the kind of life I wanted. As well as the type of people I would be willing to let into my life.

Time moves fast, doesn’t it? Only a few months ago, we filled memory cards with selfies. We made the neighbors jealous.

Even I was jealous of us sometimes.

“Where have you been all my life?” I’d sometimes wonder.

At the time.

At the time, I refused to acknowledge that I was not ready to be your friend. That I did not trust you. And that the series of events that led to our last conversation were simply a domino effect that lined up nicely from the very first evening we met.

Do you remember that evening? Do you remember our subsequent conversations? And the trail of crumbs on the internet? Do you remember how offhand I was and how everything seemed so…okay?

IT was fun, wasn’t it?

At the time.

At the time, I wasn’t the same person writing this. I am free, now. I can tell you that I don’t need you. Not in a “you’re useless” way. But in an I-am-not-emotionally-available way.

I hurt your feelings. And I want you to hate me. In the same light, I want you to move on fast enough to be able to spread the happiness I used to hear in your giggle.

You are more than you believe. Yes, you cannot stand alone you’d say. I think you’re wrong. However, I cannot change what you believe. But if you focus on how weak and inadequate you are, nothing will ever happen. Nothing.

I thought you were the missing rib. The soul mate I would make my life with. At the time.

Today, I see the world through a prism of honesty. No, I don’t walk around being honest with people. More about being honest with myself and the things I want. The things I need and the things I am good at. The habits I must kill and what I am willing to sacrifice.

Sweetheart, I am willing to sacrifice you. And I mean this in a very selfish way. Not morbid. Selfish.

I care about myself and my well-being. And one thing I have come to accept is that when I go against everyone to make sure I am happy, somehow, everyone goes through the stage of disparaging my choices to finally coming around.

At the time, I was scared of disappointing my parents and everyone else who believed in me. Even you.

At the time.

Today there is only one thing I fear: having to regret my life on the day I die.

If losing you now is the price to pay to living a life I can be responsible for, then, sweetheart, now you know why I left.

If I had to be honest with myself.

If I had to be honest with myself, I’d tell you about the time when you broke my heart and made me miserable. I would tell you how much you scarred me and how I have searched for you in every woman ever since.

If I had to be honest with myself, I’d tell you about my greatest regret which is: not starting on my path early enough. That I should have taken the reins of my circumstances firmly.

If I had to be honest with myself, I would tell you about the friends I have now. The ones who believe in me and who make me more scared of failing them than of failing me. They are my family now.

If I had to be honest with myself, I would tell you that I miss the time when I used to play video games with my brother. When we had no care in the world except the sound of mother’s vehicle.

If I had to be honest with myself, I would tell you that I am not ready for any emotional engagement. That the scarring was just a way to the truth which is this: I am not ready.

If I had to be honest with myself, I would tell you how much I love my family now. How important it is to me that they are happy.

If I had to be honest with myself, I would tell you how restless I really am. Naturally. And how I struggled to get my degree even though I could very easily have aced it.

If I had to be honest with you, I’d tell you that I hate school. That I cannot sit for long and that I easily get bored.

If I had to be honest with you, I would tell you that writing is the only thing that keeps me sane. That it is an addiction I am proud of. And ,as well, the most difficult thing for me.

If I had to be honest with you, I’d tell you that I’d either end-up marrying a writer, programmer or a psychologist. And that the latter makes more sense in foresight.

If I had to be honest with you, I would tell you that I find it hard to keep a conversation with anyone who is not cultured and well read. Not someone who reads the news. No. But someone who has a vast knowledge of the kind of stuff your lecturer considers distractions.

If I had to be honest with you, I’d tell you all these and much more.

But then, I don’t have to be honest with you.

Why?

No reason. I just choose not to. Yeah, I be da kine man.