ends and begins

if there was memory to be erased, there’ll be a long queue at the facility. many of us, mostly the ones who grew up in foster care, have found it difficult to grow up. tell me i have no faith, but tonight’s one of those where i lose my sight over what is possible.

i see history repeat, evolve in the same revolving door, our history setting our trajectory in a straight line. it is a force, an energy that cannot be manipulated or swerved. it’s like the course of a comet heading straight to the mouth of the crater. definite.

i want to make things better. i want it to be all different. wish i grew up with a last name that spelt differently. but then again, counting what i did not have will always stay the game when the attitude check does not take stock.

so, somehow, slowly, i made a decision to die a slow death. first with my resolution to change things, a serenity to know i cannot and find peace in these elements to drown out the pressures. reckless abandon, letting the wind do what it is intended to achieve. live and let die the relationships and possible endings.

it ends here tonight, the hand down to those who will go after. let those who will flourish in nature’s procreation take their place while the less of us stay on these roads and find solace and meaning amongst other things. we each find our drug, some more noble and sacred than these others. i’m willing to stay dirty, messy and screwed up. for such is my premonition and predestination. my bloodline ends here as i begin a course less travelled.

who knows where it will take when the road bends round like the circle of life i have been so well acquainted with in years past. so here i pray, my merciful creator be, go easy on me when the bandages come off, when you have to open me up to revive my beating heart. i pray you save my tears for the days when i need it the most, that you would show me a convincing miracle.

that all hope is not lost, i just don’t want to mess with trying hard to drive up the gutter.

ready, 2, fight

if you’ve never put up a fight, you’ve never really lived.

it came as a whisper in my head as my morning kick started into a turn, left bend and skid marks on the tarmac. we were both right and both wrong at the same time.

it’s been a while since my september amber daylight to stick it out on this fight. something in me refused to whimper like the little brother in the passenger seat and let it slide again. something in me tugged stubbornly with a new found confidence. something inside took leadership. something inside made a decision to choose love. something inside refused to indulge. something. something, was different.

i remember the beginning of last summer. so much dejavu hitting me as i reflect. the mistakes i told myself never to make if i could do this all over again. the scorching sun, the stubborn, the tyre marks and the uncertain eggshells lightly treaded all over our floors. i gave myself the grand and holy-joe excuse of being non-confrontational. i gave in to everything. I thought, i was laying down my life. i thought i was doing a Jesus. i gave up my driver seat and let everyone have their way. i gave up my wisdom in exchange for artificial intelligence. i made peace quickly, too easily, too conveniently and disregarded what was right and what was the loving thing to do. till i wrote regret all over my wall, affections and all that. they call it the easy way out in one of my b-sides.

the interview on friday turned out more anxious than i expected. the file closed quite quickly as the questions took a cruel stance. some instinct said this cannot be good. but the positive realist wants to think it better and give space for a stroke of irony and luck. it’s funny, but i always thought i trusted my gut. for it turned out, after a day’s delay, i found my face up close to the closed door of a potential career. something inside got angry, real angry, almost in a righteous sort of way.

as i returned to work, i decided I was not ready to make peace just yet. Not without a fight with the next stranger trying to skin off some benefit.

At the end of the conversation, the client was grateful and expressed his thanks. Even though i made it an almost rude remark about his screwed up perspective and unreasonable expectation to the company. In the end, I gave him what he wanted, but took back his pride and left him licking his ego. We both ended with our dignity intact and we both won. Like the sales pitch I am familiar with. And it occurred to me, that woman who last closed the file on me must have wanted to see some fighting hunger to consider my prospects. Now what would I do different if it happened again? My question, in reality is, what’s next? Bring it on.

Which, brings me back to my seizure of the day.

I believe in the value of fighting. In relationships, in competitions, in getting a job, in getting a foot in the door, in recognition, in earning the right, in earning respect, in earning the tough spot to clean out the awards. Comes down to how much you want it. If you want it bad enough, you will fight, you will go to war, you will do what it takes.

It is, however, different from scavenging, grabbing and hoarding. Or picking a fight.

Like sports. Like this evening, ending with a basketball game. I was the unexpected spectator, while my brother was the team player. How I saw the difference between the brutality of the babaric beasts and the skillful swordsmen wielding their years of respect for the ball, the court, the game. The difference between trophy fetish and sportsmanship. In the end, whatever shit, foul play and aggression that went on, it always ends with handshakes, hi-fives, respect, nods and acknowledgment that you played a good game. Although I beg to differ life as a game, the rules, sometimes are quite the same.

And as I sat in the deep blue enjoying the aftermath running commentary, it dawned on me the preciousness of common competition. Argument. Conflict. How it is the social blood that brings people closer.

I realized, that, this morning I put up a fight because I care enough. I care enough to fight to find a middle ground. I care enough to not bury the hatchet, push it under the carpet and pretend we’re both fine. I put up a fight so that we can learn to engage with each other’s sin, shortfall, and still have the integrity to be ourselves. Say it like it is and not deny what really goes on inside this head, frustrations, emotions and all the dirty shit. For this denial disrespects my fellow journeymen walking alongside. It essentially says, “I don’t want to get messy.” It essentially says there is no trust and faith in the person I care about. If it is not faith, it is not righteous, have we not heard?

We fight to find common ground. We fight to pay the price. The price of engaging with our world, with community, with the ones we call family. For nothing comes easy by a concept of luck and grace that is commonly preached like a free salvation.

Nothing is free, as true as my brother says, someone somewhere has already paid for it. Give us this day our daily fight.

wordless

pain is waiting, possibility of having, but not coming true, yet.

i have lost my words. my melodies eroded.

it was a good set this morning. the boys nailed it and a part of me is proud of the sum of them finding the spot on colours and the freedom to paint.

but a part of me was in sheer pain. i was happy, yet, something inside gave way, broke, and i don’t know what it is.

pain is growing up a boy made to wear tresses, trims and girl things for school uniforms.

pain is waking up in the middle of the night with the wind howling hauntingly, all alone.

sat out by the lobby away from the noise, to catch my breath. sure, i’d be blogging about it. but words escape me. and this music. the two things that make it the most painful for me.

i want to stick a knife in this heart and stop it from feeling, beating. for i don’t know when it will be till the next time i hit a sharp edge, bleed and floor it on my knees again. i want to be normal, engage-able, normal, not some baggage, not some case in point, in the same category as the outcasts.

i want to be someone my brother can be proud of. i want to belong. i want to fucking stop this nonsense.

pain is crying night after night because these convenient answers are not working out. pain is never knowing love like it is meant to be given.

give me words to replace these lies. give me your interpreted truth to undermine this poison. keep telling me, sit right here with me, till it all goes away.

diseased

i am sick. they say, these are the days you discover. they say, these are the very things, growing up without, will haunt you for the rest of your life, follow you till you die.

all i want is a pair of hands to hold me without conundrums of perversion and gratification. all i need is a replacement of good, clean, holy affection, to tame my body to its original condition.

i have been crying again. realizing, i’m still sick. out in the balmy blue night where the party inside turns it’s wheels. celebrations of success, milestones and all things normal to a middle class community.

i feel bad for the one who finds me sitting at the corner of the balcony, crying. i feel bad because there are just some things I still have no courage to tell. for fear it might spell the end of a season too brief. driving me to my edge once again. there is only so much of my screwed up anatomy they can stomach. i don’t trust enough and i am unrighteous to tell.

but perhaps this writing, is my first step, walking and talking in faith.

i remember Friday. a random conversation with a stranger over the phone, a man the age of my father. his wild soul, his accolades, his secure voice, his lulling confidence, his weathered tone, his unintrusive perspective and contentment made me stop in my tracks and wipe away my tears. he represents the fathers i could look up to growing up as a boy.

all i want, strong arms wrapped around and the assuring breath of my fellowmen running down my back, without those familiar motives of further danger and bondage. all i want is to know the love, protection and example of a father. i want to know what it feels like to be safe. all i want is to be normal like i was born to be.

but these desires seem to ignite, burn, chain me to a place submerged underwater. twisted logic and these willing abuse I have exchanged for some quick fixes to my venereal dilemma, now coming back, these side effects, to undermine these relationships and rulership of my prime. i want to be normal again. i want to grow up, along with every one of my brothers, in this second wind i caught.

i’ll do anything, i’ll give anything to get over this. over this dead man walking. come, hands and feet, show me the love of my saviour jesus.

deep fried

it was beyond our taste, spoiled on these buds who don’t know how to fully appreciate the delectable baked, hand crafted classics. too upper class it seemed. something about the sound of batter hitting the hot oil. makes for crispy unhealthy yummy finger crunchy snacks.

on the way home, it felt like back in the day when mum and dad were in high spirits after a night out and for a split moment it actually felt safe. my search for meaning to quench these mean streets have brought me here. i don’t know what to look forward to, in all honesty. for these dejavu shadows seem to play in the background, laughing and waiting for the moment for the pin to drop, for the sound break. there is an uncertainty cuffing my heels.

i trust, not in what i do not yet know, but in goodness of my father. because i am his adopted son. and he has blessed me with relations, bridges, plans and a brand new set of blueprints.

family

i did dare to make this call a while ago. careless, too brash and quick for anyone. shot myself in the foot, found myself begging at the door for penance. regreting the hopes that meddled with the patience of time. but it comes round, like they go around, life is a circle. i found prayers that make the call again on my behalf, saying these prayers like they knew the anguish in my sleep. the ones who never grew up with you, the very ones who find grace to plant my feet and ground me in a place called family. out on this balcony i found it surreal. that blood relations would be the ones to disown and these rogue trading streets would be the ones to adopt.

it seems the light i have been chasing is running close as i see the tunnel shifting in shape. the weekend of small parties, good food and company. the best things that give me reason to stay on these roads.  i am surprised that joy can sit comfortably in my heart. that peace can cradle me and tuck me in warm and snug.

that circumstances have changed, that winter has passed. little prayers answered.

i don’t know how to describe it. that all the favours and affections i never believe i deserved have now come around like my fondest. showering me with attention and what i might even call toward love. that i am finding my hands held momentarily in these family prayers and thanksgiving for food, shelter and warmth. that some part of me found adoption.

that He is restoring all the things i thought were lost. that He is crowning me again with kindness, love and grace. that belief will begin all this to make righteous that which was stolen from me

He, my redeemer, our one unifying Father.

So as i sat out above these busy street cars, sharing my music and stories with the two people closest to my heart, something inside mends, stitch by stitch. Confetti rainbows and these quiet streets, I am unbelievably loved.

aftermath

my knees are in the sun. burning, i’m perched on top of a benchpress, slouching, lazy, out on this clean balcony. beside empty beer bottles, half nibbled food bits and used party plates. my eyes squinting, trying to find the light and letters on my screen against the glare of the sun. how long since my last day off? the manager who made this all possible. kudos, in every sense of the word. can you sense it?

i’m waiting. as a son. for answers, for love to cross my path. for humans to demonstrate the love of God, my father. for how else will i know, if these prototypes don’t respond. ideations and affections passed down from generations. mine got disrupted too early and till you hear the story, lend me your shoulder, your strong back to rely on. the smell of strength and resolve. the hum of confidence invading my privacy, to calm my heartbeat underneath my skin. to bridge me to belief that this theory is not just some myth-stery. that this boy can be a father to his next of kin.

spent the rest of the afternoon laying my dirty cards before a senseh. a generation before me. to let our paths cross and let her wisdom permeate this being. she’s got a gift. i didn’t feel threatened to speak freely, of abuse, drugs use and a childhood confused. she told me to write on. songs and journals and channels that will drain the poison within. she told me to write as i worship. worship and pour out. breathe the blueprint of our Lord’s prayer in place of a spiral condition. that restoration is already at the helm of my crown.

this is one more day i step forward, believing, against my morbid imagination. a fever is still running, but history will soon unfold.

for now, my focus narrows onto the surprising gift i received yesterday. a celebration. as i see it, a beginning of lasting friendship. a continuum. it represents not just a great idea but almost an expectation that i would spend this summer out in the open sea or somewhere near it. definitely an unashamed promise of company, wine, cheese and sun kissed complexion while waiting for the bait to harvest in a good catch.

i may be the third wheel, as always, but weaning off the lithium for the bipolar is perhaps the long term solution for my mild disorder. let’s go fishing, mthrfkrs.

just break down

what is wrong with me? can’t hold out, still breaking down. wanting in, wanting out. halfpast eleven and still so restless. regret and all these ideas to fill the void. the space is difficult to pull through and the episodes are running out. what is so difficult to live through that pain prevents life from happening? all i see is the blade down the end of the street. give me this day my daily morphine.

easy drug

you make it sound so easy. favours, packaged and bubble wrapped philosophers. i know good intentions. the difference between how it tastes and how broken it is with shame. it’s the surface of this waterfall mirage. there’s more than meets this cliche phrase. maybe i feel this way because i still find it hard to rest. freedom we fight till our arms and feet grow tired. give me one more dose of this morphine. it might just keep me bridging till i meet my mark.

i don’t know the colour of these ropes entangling me, the size of the brick choking me and this water under the draw bridge submerging me. i’m afraid to breathe. can you really tell why it is hard to try?

it’s easy to say it like you do. for the pieces of your fragments have come together much more considerably, than scattered chaff blown and tossed about in the wind. from the moment we left the mother’s womb, we’ve had to make up each to our own lack and make do with the men absent from the breamaker’s mill. how can you teach a child to count if he never found his fingers chewed off by the wild west hound? how do you get a blind man to paint the color of the wild forest lake? how do you get to show the way if you’ve never been where we’ve been before?

if your arms are strong enough. if your spirit is bold enough. if your faith is wide enough, lend me a portion of your quilt for cover, strength to hold my fragments together, your breath to show me the grace of my father, if our hands and feet like jesus be.

waiting out the rain

i wonder. is it just me? it hasn’t stopped raining. all that rains on my parade. torrential, unending, on and on and on. it don’t stop. never did. not for a moment. i can’t see beyond the wall of this downpour and ironically, this kaleidoscope is helping to keep. there is much unfinished business underneath this skin and the wait is long. the price paid and the stakes high enough to blind.

i ask for mercy, with open hands, believing that i have not fallen far behind. that some one shot deal is going to clean out my closet. i just need one good shot, not another round of faux hawks promising, distracting. just give me one good clean shot, for i have no plan B. no more cheap imitation fake drugs.

yes, i confess. i am all three of them. the one tied up, trapped in a web, the one with a brick around his neck and the one submerged, afraid to breathe.

i know, this flood is not going to stop. against wise counsel, i went against my pride, set out into the horizon, made dirty and fools of those who lent me this coat. i know i have overdrawn my account. i know i have overspent my grace. i know i have overused all goodwill and gestures. i have broken boundaries and crossed my family. one day they may just disown me. one day i may never find my last name. i have treaded my history with unclean hands and stubborn lips. something tells me this running man cannot last forever. but the life of a fugitive i have chosen and these well meaning versions will kill me yet.

bring it on, cowboys and bastards. i will not go down without a fight, not until my time is up.