I don’t fear death of my body
Life away from this controlling world
I fear death of my creativity
I fear becoming paralysed by the money aspiration of this world
I fear that their good intentions may mean the death of me…of me
A death from which I may never be able to rise from
More academia, more salary, ‘Do not disappoint’ I read without sound nor letter
As my lifeless soul dangles helplessly above the sea of eternal darkness to depression
I look my captures in the eye. I am tied to my death
My family’s good intentions, My boss’ good intentions, the debt of money’s good intentions
No pressure they said…I am 23…
As I cry out to my creativity…slowly disappearing from my art….
Logic guides my paint brush…I’m insulted!
I can slowly feel my creativity slip away
From my hands
From my mind
From my soul
From my art
And there is nothing I can do about it.
A mind so feeble
Incomprehensible of what is unanticipated
Like the grains
Grains that hold in tact the dunes of knowledge,
Knowledge flowing by gravity between your fingers
A grain of sand, is the feeble mind.
Swakopmund, Namibia – Natache
Lost is man, who in himself, finds a lost woman…his reflection.
Who is he?
Who are his ancestors?
Does he have a soul?
A soul…soul lost. A man who finds his faith in a book, gifted to him by his enslavor. A figure of a foreign imagination so strong…
So strong, its stream watered his generations after him.
Lost is his society.
Finding you, yourself of the inner ancestral past,
locked within the DNA of your soul,
a fabric of well preserved threading,
only you can understand.
English words in South African accents, latest western hit music and the sound of footsteps…incoming and outbound…fill the ambiance of the eatery I have chosen to spend my spare hour…or two. I am seated at a bright red booth meant for 6…I asked the waiter for one…I guess my backpack gets a seat then.
I hear the silence filling the uncapped void between the couple seated behind me. On my way in, i stole from them a vague glance. My ears eaves drop on their silence. No words, just forks hitting white porcelain plates. An abrupt cough. Someone choked…on the silence.
I choked on their silence…
Autumn, 2013, at a UKZN Campus.
Time is a non-existent entity, of which we measure using clocks or watches.
Haha?! Why on earth do we measure time?
I feel like the notion of measuring time, in this human world, only brings about stress, anxiety, depression, too many unnecessary problems. Heck, even more so in my beautiful Africa where our ancestors never used tools to measure time but instead worked with the amount of daylight they were given and then darkness in the evening. This resulted in people living a balanced and peaceful life. A beneficial one indeed. I do, however, believe that the measuring of time is interlinked to human productivity driven by money . Sad but true.
I really wish we could adopt the notion of working with the body of day and not be so money orientated. You know, wake up when nature tells you to, work, recreate when the heat intensifies at noon until dark, then back to sleep as soon as darkness falls thick across the sky. Yes, may sound very “theoretical”, but it can definitely work. The only problem being the reluctance of many (especially the powerful money eaters) to take the “risk”of change from their comfort zones.
Well oh well.
I still fail to understand how/ why freckles on the body of a woman, are accepted by society;
But yet body hair, apart from the hair on your head and eyebrows, is frowned upon?
Like, what’s the difference?