...dear diary, the desire to bleed before daylight has dragged my poet from the world of dreams and for there is a day of planting zucchini waiting ahead for my happy farmer, the hour suits this hearty spill.
...in a perfect world, I wouldn't be harbouring a worry or two that have me deeply unsettled but there is always a masking smile for the minutes I keep drowning in my mind trying to find a way to calm the sea within.
...everything in me wants out. The lie that I sell to anyone watching me from outside, the intrusive thoughts, the hate I have grown for where I live, the desire to be lost in my farm like tiny green worm dancing with the wind on a leaf.
...the half-baked art, the unseasoned political rants, the perks of motherhood that live in the contours of the expectations of an ailing world, the unjust continuous deaths of women and children, the unnecessary imprisonment of human beings.
...there is an ache to tell it all but then there is this overwhelming need to want to silence my artistic voice into the never coming perfection. It is always a battle between such and procrastination and I can't help but feel lost sometimes.
...the emptiness of drifting away to tackle life only to return here drained by the uncertainties of a capitalistic system. The resentment that this alone created here is something I try to censor every time I feel it crawling towards the tips of my pens.
...yet there are moments when the fog lifts and I find myself fluently talking about pain but not necessarily feeling it but I get to feel like I have peeled another layer of what I once saw as thick skin to expose my hidden wounds.
...scars look good on my healing souls but somehow I tend to hide mine. Pain has always felt like a lighter load and literature being the noblest remedy, it has allowed me to carry it with such ease.
...in the depths of my poetry and prose, lives the idea of my inner freedom and I can only dance to its divine pulse when I let myself submerge in the grace that comes with wielding my pens.
...from my words, I have sheltered the healing different versions of myself and learned how to exhale while still stuck under the sea. From them, I have gained the courage to start again with nothing but them.
...how can I then struggle to carve out some time to spend with what anchors me? Why can't I find the right words to create something like this piece on demand? How does one distil their mental anarchy to consumable shots served on ice?
...digital art is mine.
wambuku w.
