I can’t write.

The words are there underneath, bubbling, frantic. But somehow, they do not find a way to be said or written. Maybe because these days I feel less of a need to tell a story, more of a desire to shed tears and skin and life. My life feels like a suppressed sob, slurred words, and I want to weep with slurring saliva, soiled make -up, sorry screams. I have the suspicion that the circumcision I had as an infant was made all over my body, removing the foreskin that could soak up this world’s rage; and left me with a sub-skin that was brittle with the fore-signs of every invasion of love I would face.

I can’t write.
Last night, I read about the El Nino phenomenon on Wikipedia. And it felt like I was reading my biography. I am those lands ravaged by storms, lashed by droughts, broken.

I can’t write.
The zeitgeist is rich with writing materials. The increasing antiquation of our currency, the fuel price hikes and imminent strikes, stolen loot discovery and Boko Haram’s recovery, Cattle herders and Avengers. It’s an interesting time to be alive.

I can’t write
This morning, I almost asked out my best friend’s partner. I almost risked my friendship with her, because she made the inability to write not feel like a tsunami’s waves banging on the boulders of my soul. And I wanted that feeling for a while longer. I wanted to explore how she made it happen. Deeper and deeper into her. I almost asked her. But even in my silence, I still betrayed her. Sigh. I know where Peter walked.

I can’t write.
I’m chasing dreams in the day, and I’m sleepless at night. Hell chases me, burns at the closing of my eyelids. Demons stalk my days; they pick at my trail. They are bidding their time. Waiting for the executioner to arrive. Sometimes I sense he’s moving closer, the same way a dog’s ears stand when intruders lurk.

I can’t write.
I’m walking down the streets, and they feel empty of the fellowship that made me feel like the world was not an extended cut of a dysfunctional horror flick. These streets birthed me. This old, rusty village. It feels like it is about to topple into the abyss of becoming a shanty town and the consequent atomism. It feels like a nasty break-up. And I know how Armageddon-like those are.

I can’t write.
Seven. Complete. I’m looking at a knife lovingly. Wondering how soft it would feel on my wrists. How the colour of my blood would contrast against the stainless metal of its blade. I look and smile. I think of making myself into an art installation, stripped skin by stripped skin, a red-liquid framing, skewered bones to hang up my opus. 'In death, we rise.' Time out. Think no evil.

I can’t write.
A new friend looks like a possibility. She feels honest. I want to be honest with her. I want to tell her I’m broken and fragile and defective. I try to be nice. It chafes. And the chafing may cause bunions in my soul, but they’d be cheerful bunions with her. While I find out a way to love her outright. A way that snakes through hell.

I can’t write.
I have a curious relationship with faith. It’s like how a child sees a father who’s promised showing up for so many appointments important to the kid (recitals, soccer games, school drama), but never does. because he’s busy helping out others and the children of others, to their nth generation.

I can’t write
I’m tip-toeing across twitter. Twitter reminds me of my family. A family one has enough love to give, pumping a heartful of love per millionth second at them. But the path back to my heart must be blocked, no one has found a way to give back love. That may be why I have been diagnosed as anaemic. Loosing, and not receiving.

I can’t write.
Two months ago, I rediscovered the temple the creator inhabits. And I must worship there soon. I will go to the temple of our common beginnings, bow my head, and worship with my tongue. God always replies in this temple. She cries out, and jerks, and thrusts forward, and shouts my name, and asks for unfettered fervency, and draws nearer and sideways, and leads me into her truths, and is seized in the passion of my earnest worship. This God does not speak with a still small voice…she roars; and in this temple, God always comes!

(Photo-credit: 9bridges.org)

For Jackie Barra. A passing stranger whose footprints led me home.

For Jackie Barra. A passing stranger whose footprints led me home.

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