Dear Diary...
The day is 23rd February at 23:33 as my fingers have decided to dance to the raced beat of my mind. Slow Swahili ballads are soothing my tired soul and I am choosing to spew what is being inspired by them over slow dance which I enjoy.
Swahili is the most mellow language in my world and I am in love. It's the most delicate way to express love... And even as my bones wonder why my heart is choosing words over the healing sway, I feel like I am home.
Home with myself.
And I must admit it feels unreal.
For every time I sit with the idea of my existence, my mind is gradually stained by the absurdity of it all. I get lost in the rhythm of my sensations as every shade of the self fights to leave the shadows. The echoes of any good music overwhelm my free spirit like listening to a thousand versions of the violin would and I can't help but be ferried to a safe space.
And like a lost bird at the feet of the giant pyramids or the snowy peaks of the highest mountains, I move in awe.
I am here. Breathing. Nursing burns past the chaos. I honor my experience while marveling at my inner strength. I caress every scar and attend to the reoccurring wounds. Defying all odds.
The sun finds my face curved in a smile every dawn and the wind calls me by name. The heart and all its wisdom steer my feet where they need to go. Yet the mind weighs more than the body that carries it, sometimes. Still, I am grateful for the experience.
It is like the universe secretly brings about pain just to see me break and stay in pieces for a stretched minute then breathe life back into my shell. One second I am failing apart and the next rebuilding starts. A cycle that requires grace and the willingness to kill one's ego.
What follows is the alignment with the thought of giving myself back the room to be human. I reinvite my flaws as they empower my infinite possibilities. I remind myself that they are a part of the fabric that makes me who I am.
Isn't that how you brew self-love?
It might sound like a two-minute recipe but I promise it's not.
It takes practice. Daily. It demands nourishment. A routine of healthy chats with the reigning intrusive thoughts. To be able to listen to them crying for my attention and choose to walk away. Hard as it is, it recaptures the idea of embracing light again.
Reigniting self-love invites sacrifices I struggle to accommodate. And every time I have to, my higher self yells relentlessly.
So here I am. Listening to slow rhythms and willing to try.
Or doesn't it take vulnerability to live? To accept ourselves? And in doing so we encounter glimpses of the moments we seek and live through them... But oh how I wish I don't keep forgetting that... As it will unquestionably absorb my conditioned soul from the matrix before its truth crystallizes into these midnight poetic lamentations.
See you soon.
Signed,
wambuku w.
