Dawn is here and the cycle of a new day is already in play and like yesterday and the day before, it has some familiar demands.
The mechanical bits are functional thanks to caffeine and the mothering persona is helping pretend that everything is going as planned as it is wired to want what's better for my loves but the animal behind my face is slowly dying.
Where do I begin?
The human experience is an expensive affair. This race and being a part of its capitalised existence are heavily taxing both emotionally and financially so having access to basic needs is as good as the drip of my sweat and boy has it been cold.
Aside from being conditioned to fit into the narrative, the idea of staying tame never enticed my wild side. Some days are harder than others even when the hours are not the face of the parched earth when the gods refuse to cry.
I often find myself drifting through irreplaceable time in a self-regulating mode trying to feel whole and all I feel is like a part of me is being smothered somewhere within me and there is nothing I can do about it.
Nights take me down memory lane as mornings lay in wait assuming that I will be rested by the time they arrive only to drag my fatigued frame out of bed. We have been playing this game for years but periodically.
I am not saying that's good nor am I being a willing victim of sleep vigilance but it is what it is. It is the depths of these downs that determine the ups as much as I hate it down here. It feels like what being anchored at the bottom of the sea would.
But I have reared a smooth tongue to match this drawn smile that I adorn instantly when anyone asks why my eyes are void not knowing that I sometimes draw the curtains of my soul to match the deceitful calm embodied by my skin.
Yet there are cloudless seconds and moments where I can actually feel the air cruising through my veins. And the ones when I glimpse the smiles of the renditions of life, that chose to extend itself, through my womb.
Or sacred times like this, when slices of heaven come down in form of woven prose and poetic phrases to make sense of the diversified hell's aftertaste that makes me look forward to experiencing next that make all this my good trouble.
wambuku w.
