LOOKING FOR YOU

Source: online, unknown

Dearest,

Some would fight for love. I don’t have that as-noble-as-is-shameful aspiration. I am writing to find you. When I used to watch you write, I never quite understood it when you told me it calmed you. Well, maybe because I could not imagine you ruffled in the first instance. You said writing helped you collect your thoughts.

I don’t collect, neither am I quite collected.

I am writing to find you.

Where are you since you have been gone? Where do people like you go? Into the arms of someone else? Who can satisfy the appetites of people like you? Can even someone like you do that? I know I pushed you away. And I know the hurt in itself could drive you into the arms of another in a fit of rebound, yes? Or, are you beyond frailties? I like to think what we shared could mean so much to you to have affected you that way. Apparently, I am not beyond selfishness. Or, maybe that is the way the experience some call love ought to be. That what partly made it special was knowing that I was responsible for you and you vulnerable to me. How sick is that?

Is there any point to this? Why should I want you back? What is to stop this cycle from repeating itself again? People argue breakup-makeup cycles are bad. Others say one could learn from past mistakes and redo things better. What if the explanation is simpler than that? That we are meant to be, and part of what happens is we grow from knowing that we are bound to end up with each other again –the sense of the inevitability. That generally should make sense to you. It should comfort you that: the fact we keep ending up back together should mean that we are meant to be –the sense of predestination, certainty and rightness of decision. The proof that a force beyond natural must want us to be together.

Or, have we become an old love? The kind that just gives off smokes like a locomotive, which can never aspire to be a spaceship giving off fire. You know such crafts are not practicable on this earth’s ground where we live, right? Why not enjoy the familiarity that we have. Why not gain from growing into each other. Or, does that make us like poles which repel?

People argue a little drama now and then is good. Does breaking up sound little to you? Should one deliberately start a drama not knowing if it had the capacity to escalate into a break? How does one perfectly control the situation? Would someone in love be so calculating and manipulative of love itself no less?

I know we are generally a complicated lot as humans. We criticise some for making issues complicated. Yet we somehow deep inside enjoy complications in life. We say it makes us feel alive.

But, please, believe me when I say I want to find you. It’s not about finding love as an experience. I want you. And this desire is without complication or another shade of meaning. It is as plain as my thoughts, as my words.

It is as wonderfully calm as I feel when writing. When writing this.

Don’t make me wait forever. The waiting game does not necessarily breed passion. It can finally kill whatever spark is left.

Please…

I wait to hear from you.

 

Yours,

About wit

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Dearest,

Somehow, I hope you are taking a little break from work at this time to read this. What are the chances you are online now?

When I woke up this morning, I was brightly smiling to your face. I knew you were the special one for me, even though that could have meant different things if one were to analyse it. I told you how I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you. You smiled with so much warmth in your eyes, I almost dropped a tear onto my pillow. Usually it’s my saliva that wets it when I sleep. But you never complain about my drooling, the way I never faulted you for snoring, both of us despite different head/neck positions we had tried. It’s just our queer romantic thing, I guess.

You then asked me what would happen to our love after our lives on earth.

I replied I did not know.

Really, who knows what comes next after? Who has gone and returned to tell us, and why should we believe him/her?

You then sweetly tugged at my warm succulent cheeks. The kind of cheeks a masculine man should not have. I swiftly beat your hands away, telling you sharply not to patronize me. I told you I knew what you would say next. You looked condescending as you smiled lovingly at me, telling me not to be presumptuous. Even now, I can hear you laughing sarcastically at me for judging your look as condescending. I retorted that I knew you would call me shallow. You would say I don’t usually analyse things properly. You would not exactly use the word “shallow”, but would every letter imply it. You act at times as though you understood everything. You had once told me it was just the way your countenance was, and that you really did not regard yourself as very knowledgeable or wise. You should know that your body gestures are important. I had often told you to look in the mirror as you practised your facial expressions. You can never become perfect at understanding or manipulating people if you could not understand yourself, or control your own expressions. Then you tell me that to be more romantic I had to learn to look at issues more closely and clearly. How do you do that! You are so amazing for managing to link intellectual wit with romance.

So, let us be clear.

We had a hot argument this morning because of what would happen to us after we died? Or because of what would happen to our love? Or because you wanted to romantic with words? Or because you wanted me to have given a better and more romantic answer –if only I had thought more deeply of course! Well, how about: “We will never die because God would never want a love like ours to end?” Or, “We would still continue our love in the next realm?” Well, you and I know that you’d sooner throw the second answer out as a painful cliché. You’d then pick on the first one, asking how God would break a core rule of mortality just for our sake. Then the discussion would still hit the rocks!

Am I looking at issues more closely now? Have I been right in my analysis so far? Am I smart enough for you to respect me now? Am I right enough to match your wit now? You know that in a twisted romantic way, I am fatally drawn to your mind?

Because I really need to. Somehow, I am convinced you are the one for me. And we have to be a complementary match.

Will you tell me something different now? Will you be warm towards me? Or will you tell me I have yet again totally misrepresented you, here in the face of the whole world this time?

Well, that would even be if you happen to be online now.

 

 

Fatally yours,

BREATHE

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Introspective

It’s nice to sing that new beat
Not just when drunk on milk and beef
Or high on smoke from that roasting rabbit
Meat so deliciously lean and stiff
As we gather round the heat
All of us dancing on the cliff
Thankful that tonight life is neat
And we are spared the gliff
Spared the terror and hit
That make us tremble like a leaf
Tearing us bit by bit
Ain’t this life’s spiff
Biting us in the butt even on retreat
Never leaving like our very own reef
Driving nails into the sores of our feet
Darkening the core of all our belief
Setting up pins for us on our seat
So nauseating is this life’s whiff
Monsters parade this life’s gloomy street
Even when silent we hear them sniff
Causing terrors that make our hearts grit
These life’s fairy-demons meet us with a biff
They greet our joys with a slit
And spare us no tiff
Leaving us a ghastly bloody treat
So when we get some relief
We are thankful for the feast
Giving the Creator glory without miff
And smiling as we lie tonight each on his bedsheet

Resting In Peace!

INTROSPECTION (songs for plath)

Someone I know presented this at a book club, and something about the content made me decide to share, as I told him.

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I

My heart is a tomb where hope comes to live,

I go to parties of happiness to breathe,

I inhale all the light around me

and leave the parties when it gets dark,

too dark for men to see

without stumbling into the sadness.

Too dark to feel for lighters that lift the souls of men high.

 

I watch their fears colliding from a distance,

I giggle.

 

II

On quiet days

when there are no songs left in my lungs,

I write.

 

I like to write stories of women that died

while embracing life-

firmly

women we thought had too much of her in them

but we never cared to look beneath their skins.

 

On autopsy,

the pathologist said he found castles living inside them,

Castles that echoed whispers.

 

III

There are nights when I dream;

 

I am a bird, carrying happiness within my beak

Flying towards a nest I do not know.

 

I never get home.

An angry storm breaks my beak into two,

happiness dissolves into a stream of darkness.

 

I wake up screaming.

Sweating.

 

-OLUAFOLABI

Prose or poetry

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I can never amount to that
Like those who shamelessly
Tirelessly aspire to glory
They seek novelty among the regular

I don’t coordinate that long
My thoughts are unfaithful
Shamefully capricious
I try to write a good story
Like a famed novelist
But I don’t get a page through

Novelists are manipulative and dubious
They live for masks
They conjure strings of words
But you never see the start or end
They say it is fiction
But we know it is gossip
They say they write about human lives
But we know they write eulogies to themselves

I am as plain as you read me
See my lines
Full of little short words
That don’t even aspire to the ceiling
Look at them broken apart
I can never seem to write sentences
Long enough to fill the screen
Even when I have ideas that long
I never seem able to write a full line
I always fall short
I always walk within my mortal limits
I’m no demigod like novelists
And other citizens of the Writing Kingdom
I’m an outcast
A dribbler
A scribbler
A conman

Look one last time at my lines
The next not logically linked to the previous
I am humble
I am broken
My thoughts are as fragmented as they appear
Disjointed as my lines
Verbose and circumstantial
My imagination loose and childish
Floating like a kite in lightning
Immature
Dented
Crippled
My scattered lines betray my mortality
Seeming close to paradise
But never quite making it for the life of me
Left trudging near the edge
Wandering
Wasting
Unsatisfactory
Incomplete

P.S. Hope the reader knows this is not a poem.

RIVER GOD

 

 

They say

If you leave a rough little child

Long enough by the river bank

He will become better

 

He will be washed clean

And gently be eroded

By the clear running water

Till he ceases to exist

 

Intermission…

 

Been years waiting by the river bank

I am still the same

Maybe he will come

Maybe he will do as he wants

And I will have no say

 

I remain the same

Even if I feel dry during the drought

And I can’t pretty much find passion for anything

I can’t even notice I am dry

 

Or choked during the rains

And can’t handle all the normal things

Other human beings enjoy handling

All the pleasant emotions and moments

And miracles and experiences

 

The heat refused to melt me

During the harshest of times

And cold means little to me

I don’t take pleasure in being aloof

 

I am still waiting

Maybe he will come

To touch me

That is all I want

 

Maybe he will touch me

At my curves and spots

And straighten me out

Softly

Firmly

Slowly

Making me wet

He won’t be rough or harsh

He will just touch my edges lightly

And gradually smoothen me out

 

Please come

River spirit

This little stone is rough

Make it smooth

 

Been waiting here by the river bank

All these years

Watching all those seasons and tides

Remaining unchanged

 

But when he comes

The river god will use his water

To smoothen me out

As he makes me wet all over

 

 

Or maybe just for luck

He will wear me out

As water erodes the rock

And that will be the end of my story!

 

BACKGROUND: “River God” by Nicole Nordeman playing in the background.

I am taking a step back tonight from shamelessly bemoaning and eulogizing the sad state of life today.

I am taking a step forward today into the hope that things will be better and light will shine.

But, somehow, I am still carrying the cynicism along with me through the door into that hope.

 

PRONE TO WANDER

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Some say rain settles the scattering heart
Some argue it enrages the wandering

The rains have started and things are as they should be
The floods have come for my roof which was built to last
After which they reach for my soul which was meant to stay
I thought I was lost in a sweet dream
Not knowing the showers are from an actual leaking roof
In the midnight I wake
Lightning lights my flooded room

Oh darn!

I don’t try to light the candle with my wet matches
I don’t reach for my rechargeable lamp
Which of course is dead
Thankful electricity is long gone
And I don’t have to step into a flood of shocks

They say rain enrages the wandering heart.

(Intermission…)

I have never built a home to last
I know I am always set to move with the next turn of the season
I don’t spend two seasons in one place
I don’t settle down and take roots
In friends and jobs and titles and neighbourhoods
I don’t plan for that future
I don’t carry a rope with me to tie myself down to anyone with
I don’t even carry a printer to print certificates and garner awards

The heart is not wild or rebellious
It is just prone to wander

It finds discomfort in calmness and weakness in stability
So I take a sweet flower with me wherever I go
To give those around who would be close to me
And whilst they see it as a pleasant gesture
I am watching for when the flower-fade begins
As a timer for my departure

People kid themselves
Don’t human physiology and psychology teach one thing
All are in constant state of activity
Even in the depth of that most restful sleep
The body is still active
Only dead things settle down

It is not deliberate
Things have just come to be the way they are
Hairs are always on end
Sleeping with eyes wide open
Hands always reached out
Feet always itching to move

Till the day I grew tired of it
And finally decided to make a home

Well now, here’s back to the start and end of the story

Settled finally in my home
At the start of the rainy season
Which is always a reminder to count
The many showers of blessings in my short life
The rain tears through my roof
In the middle of this night
I wake up in the middle of my house
The room dark and flooded
Full of possessions and loved ones
Grab that bag I kept in the corner of the wardrobe
And in 5 seconds I’m out the house
Only my boxers on
Not even stopping to check
If everyone else is alive in the flooded space
Sling my bag over my broad thickened shoulders
And leap through the window of the upper bedroom
My bare feet making no sound on the floor below
In the middle of the stormy rain
In the middle of the night

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My bag containing the two ONLY possessions
My wandering heart
And a beautiful rose
__________________________________________

BACKGROUND: “Quiet times” by Dido Armstrong playing in the background; and I echo “It’s hard enough to see the world as it is, and hold on anything”.

“Caution: what cynicism you may accuse me of is what you humanity has shown me. I am just a mirror; and my writings are not my own.” -JANISH

Mankind has done it again. The heart is by far more unpredictable than the weather. I am amazed afresh at how we behave. No, I have not seen it all! I have seen a lot, and I should be used to how our minds dance; but it amazes me afresh with some sparks of ingenuity. And I am left asking, fallen on the dancefloor, “how did you do that?” It does not follow any rule of love or reason. It does not even follow itself. It just wanders… drifts… fluctuates… dissociates….

ANOTHER SEASON OF LIFE

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All that happens is change
That’s what defines a life form
Times came and went
But I remained unchanged
Was it that I did not even learn anything
Shouldn’t I at least grow in wisdom
Well, I added the knowledge that my life’s seasons change
But I already knew life’s seasons change

I’ll miss the old times and whom I used to be
And I will always gaze at that painting of the old me
That painting set in grey muddy colours
These thoughts run through my mind
As I consider the new season of my life
Coming with showers and brightness

The days of the dark clouds are crawling out
They are waving at me from a distance
Don’t worry fellas
I’ll miss you
I think these things within me
I wave back
I smile
I blink
I hold back a tear
I sniff lightly
I do not let them see it

What to do
When life is as it should be
What to do
When I cannot find my inspiration
When I have nothing to say to those facing sorrowful times
When all I can write about are the almost meaningless things
When getting a promotion at work is just ordinary
When boasting of new inventions is the norm
When buying my third car is just another hobby

When someone frowning at me ruins my day
When someone crying beside me soils my mood
When someone ruffling my dress gets me angry
Yes, those are the kinds of things that disturb me now

What to do
When I can’t keep a poker face
Because now all my bosses are so nice to me
And I have no reason to be guarded around them
And my emotions bleed shamelessly on my sleeve
For all to see and read my thoughts clearly

What to do
When I can’t empathize with my patients
Because I have so quickly forgotten
What it means to live in psychic chaos
Lying in peace on the bed of conflicts
Because my senses have grown accustomed to darkness
That even the light would hurt
And make my eyes bleed
Like a traveller in a canoe in the middle of a sea
Where the most peaceful moments
Are the dark nights he can’t read the sky to navigate
And he would just sit still
With the barest of ease nature affords him
Because the monsters of the great sea of life
Are busy tonight
Mating
To produce lovelier babies
Newer sorrows this life has not seen before
Maybe tomorrow they will think fondly of him
And the whole family will pay him a visit

No, life won’t cut him a break

Life doesn’t cut these patients of mine a break
And some of them may soon be back after discharge
Suffering from relapses
Whilst their kind doctor can only manage sympathy
Because he cannot empathize
He has forgotten what chaos smells like
Has life cut him his own break

Life doesn’t cut one a break

So strongly do I believe this
That it doesn’t make sense to me
That these dark clouds over my estate are leaving
Not only is it abnormal
It is somewhat sad
These dark clouds over my life
Have been a source of beauty
Colouring my days with different shades of grey
Muddy grey colours

What will I do now
With my melancholic-creative self

These thoughts run through my mind
As I wave at these dark clouds
Half-hoping they will change their minds and turn back
I say no word to them
Just a sniff I suppress
Just a tear I hold back
As these lovely clouds creep over the horizon
And happy blue skies stroll through
I wave them in
I give no smile
I give no blink
I let out a sniff
The tear I had held back trekked through

The happy days ask me why
I tell them they are tears of joy
As I look sideways fondly at the old painting of me
Set in grey sorrowful colours
And wonder within me what is to become of my life
In this new season I am in
The happy days of happy thoughts!

THE LAST DANCE

 

If looking through your window in the rain doesn’t move you, or even looking at this picture doesn’t touch you, then you need to see me for evaluation.

Finally I have seen it all

I have seen all the seasons of life

All different kinds of people

I have learnt all there is to know

 

Time to dance to the last rain

 

Gradually these clouds gather

Heavy nimbus clouds

Carefully in formation

These kinds don’t come by accident or regularly

These dark clouds over my estate only

They snigger playfully, sardonically, as they march in place

And soon some sweet little rain drops show

They trek carefully down my windowpane

In sync with those down my cheek

In-between these drops I see seasons of my life gone by

 

In-between these rain drops

I count the many blessings I have enjoyed in my short living

I see the many smiles that have wrinkled my old handsome face

The bright mornings I woke up happy and strong

The sweet quiet times strolling in the midnight

The awards and honours to a distinguished psychiatrist

Who has seen the chaos of men’s souls and survived

The wealth I have amassed and shared

 

In-between these tear drops

I count the many sorrows I have suffered in my short life

I see the many frowns that have wrinkled my old gravely face

The grey mornings I have felt like lying all day crying in bed

The loud weary times toiling away in the sun

The dilemmas and confusions of a chronic shrink

Who has not remained the same after seeing the mind’s darkness

The heartbreaks I have amassed and caused

 

I say no word

It is loud enough as it is

I am still quiet and peaceful

Totally at ease with the clouds in my world

I have cleared my house and sorted out my affairs

The stage is wide-set and the audience seated

They wait happily for my debut

For how I dance as I exit

At the applause of a million showers of the last rain

____________________________________________________

BACKGROUND: I find myself recently constantly wondering how actually short life is. For anyone like me who runs a tight schedule (and I can count many of you that I have met), you occasionally scold yourself for not stopping to breathe or enjoying happier moments than when you have just completed some project and soon you define your moments by your professional/work accomplishments. It’s only occasionally we do this because we are way too busy to even indulge in such thoughts. We soon are lost in our “slavings-away”. For all the drama and activities we go through as humans, the whole story seems so short and pretty incomplete for a movie producer to even make a timeless classic from.

Here’s a little reminder and toast to the fact. A reminder that itself will not last long. A reminder that will be gone and forgotten with the first drop of the next rain over my little tropical city.

INCOMPLETE JUST YET

(Source: deviantart.net)

You gave no warning

When I did what I thought was right

You just smiled

When I did what I knew was wrong

You just smiled

I woke up first day of last year

And you were gone

I was sure I was still dreaming

Because you leaving has to be a nightmare

Because it was supposed to be morning

But it was still dark

It was morning but it was dark

Because when you left

You took away light

And since then the world has been in darkness

Day or night

The saddest thing was only you left

You didn’t take away your things from my house

It was when I looked for you yourself

That I realized you had left

Are you dead or just gone

Would I ever know

If you were the one I asked that question

You would probably just smile

You would just smile

Well, maybe I will wait here

For when you come pick your things

Please tell me you are coming to

That way I will have the sad dignity

Of being made fully aware

You are finally gone

And there’d be no mistaking it

I will sit here on my bed

Waiting for you

No! Not in self-pity

Or in a shameful attempt at histrionics

But what’s to do when it’s all dark

And I am tired of sleeping forever

And no one’s going to work outside

What’s to do to make sense of the madness

What’s an ill shrink got to do

Except to sit patiently on the bed

Listen to the nocturnal animals

Talking and playing together

Saying things only I can hear

Sweet whispers only I hear in my head

Well, they are comforting

Because now I hear the animals talk about you

They call you mysterious and strange

Well they seem to have you all figured out

Since that’s what seems to describe you best

I’ll wait for when you come

To pick your things

And maybe I will beg you

To tell me why you left

And took away the light of the world

Leaving us in chaotic perfection and confused clarity

Our centres holding as well as a rubbery cornerstone

And we have only managed to build lives like grand sand castles

(Source: deviantart.com)

Even so I am afraid I may not get an answer

Because you seem to like speaking in riddles

You seem to fancy shrouded and cloudy speeches

Replying my questions with words that raise more questions

I know what I’ll do

Since I can’t sleep or do anything

I know what to do

I’ll just wait

Uselessly

Passively

Forever…

After sending this all over the world

Maybe it will get to you

Maybe it will get to your heart

And you will come

And maybe when you come

Maybe you won’t tell me why you left

Maybe you will come back to me

Maybe you will stay for real this time

BACKGROUND: “Incomplete” by Backstreet Boys is playing in the background.

No, it wasn’t quite the song that inspired this. After writing this, I just couldn’t think of a better background now than the opening lines of the song.