On Going Black
God, and the Life he created, they are exceedingly.... a hard story to pin down; there’s always a new facet, always a new point of view hidden behind the smoke and mirrors we are used to looking for (even though there, they may not always be).
Amidst all that mystery, it’s apparent that He equips everyone- everything- with that one unique thing that always comes easy; a Second nature that isn’t always apparent.
People are; mathematical geniuses, poets, Mozart, experts at disregarding terror and doom, accomplished at jumping through seven rings of fire hoisted above a tub of ice cream terminating in the hug of a giant teddy bear, (and no, I have no evidence to support my theory that that is, indeed, a thing; but hey, who said second nature can’t be specific?).
Heck, some people are even experts at being Donald Trump (whatever he is) and that’s gotta take some...... finesse.
I haven’t ever really been awesome at identifying my Inner-second-nature-Badass, probably because I’m usually too engrossed in rubbishing any attempts I make at doing something right; in hoc casu; but I’ve always liked to write...., not tell stories, write. Every time I do, it feels like the thing around my neck; that invisible imp that sits like a dead-weight upon my voice constricting the deluge of the words I really want to say into a slow trickle of what feels safe to say in the moment. Everytime I do; it feels like that thing around my neck just gets a little bit looser
I've dabbled in poetry, but it always seems like the easy way out for me, wrapping my words in metaphor upon imagery upon double entendre; planting an army of imposters around the simple shrub of what i mean to say till nothing but the fact that the forest is green can be discerned without taking a flamethrower to my words.... And just like that I feel like the imp has started to dip filthy fingers into the blood flowing through my wrists, poisoning the voice in my fingers, sucking away at it too.
There are many poets gifted at saying it loud, saying it true, that's just not MY arena of clarity
It hasn't always bothered me.
Not until I realised that I cared...
Cared about the words I had left orphaned on the doorstep of my tongue, my pen, AND my keyboard for that matter (it's 2016 y'all, ain't no longer a pen-only kraal ); eternally consigned to a life of bench warming while others less deserving got to "shine" at first-team football.
It bothered me because those words, whether long discarded or still on the way are not orphans, they have a mother and she's called Courage... And I need to get me some.
So I'm taking a stroll down Prose Boulevard, my path less travelled.
Because writing, much like having breakfast is an endeavour best attended to in person...
You can't smell the coffee if you seek the cafeteria out by proxy, and honestly speaking; maybe it's time you did (smell the coffee that is).
And in my particular case, poetry is my proxy.
Those who've had the sad luck (or at least the dubiously indubitable honour) of setting eyes upon enlightenment don't really know how to sit still in the darkness anymore...
They can claim it...
They can dream about the days when they knew too little....
When "Ignorance Is Bliss" was just a saying consigned to moldy Sci-Fis and pages less turned....; uniquely adept at filling space between the lines, but ultimately an abstract thought, no more real than the blue hen taking in your profile in the window pane through a sniper-scope even as you read this
Pretty simple, it's true what they say, Going Black means you can never quite really, truly, fully find your way back.