...dear diary, the seventh month of the year continues to unfold and I am mourning the loss of what I thought life would be as we speak. Every new day calls for the unceremonious burial of these withering goals and dreams followed by the acceptance that all works in my favour in the end.
...a melancholic mood consumes the colour of my prose as I get completely absorbed in describing the details that make my human experience. The courage it takes to dip these graphic pens where some would never dare go is taking on the shame that might sprout soon after.
...there is a residue of my poetic ego looking to thrash some passive toxic energy and nothing fuels my words like the need to prove a point. I have dug myself out of worse depths using strings of phrases and it is possible to summon such an urge again.
...and so I must put pen and express myself like I have embodied every ghost of every woman who couldn't scribe her truth.
...if you sit with me through these long nights and stay with me during the overwhelming days, I might be able to stitch my anxiety into a ball of light that will guide my lost feet. All I need is your company. Or is there a better way to find one's dying light?
...for me, these diary pages are partially how I summon my higher self and stay in control of the chaos that rules my mind. They are an act of defiance in a society that expects some sort of censorship when it comes to what should be shared and how it should be.
...imagine dealing with such expectations.
...yet perfection is a layer in what seems like it is imperfect and the springs of my truth are spilling my flaws. Lessons don't come from anything that doesn't involve risk and I don't bleed to please even me so come knowing that I'll disappoint you now and then if I can't contain the tears of my soul.
...my ego made me say that.
...and so from my shallow graves and the deepest part of my spirit, I will parade what lies beyond the surface. The wish to disentangle my voice from the anarchy of echoes vibrating in my head has surrendered to my ink.
...come with me and watch my ability to rebirth my pain into poetic pieces and complex prose. Have you ever seen a shattered essence mending itself?
...wambuku w.
