The dithering fabrics of resolutions

Earlier this year, when I vowed, like everyone else (because it’s okay to be counted with the masses sometimes for the sake of embracing the spirit of unity), to let go of every being/thing not deserving of me or me of them or it, I was sitting in my room taking life as lightly as I always took my breakfast, that never really took on the strawberries, muesli and plain yoghurt guise. My nonsensical supposedly selfless plan (to save my cracking heart) as silently as it was conversed with self, was to forget this oath the minute I remembered it and I would blame it on my excessively sober heart that once became high on fireworks the same day it became victim of broken promises but it was already too late.

My heart had already made its pick and I could tell I was also being hand-picked out from other people's hearts like you’d pick a fly from your grandmother’s porridge pulling that awkward disgusted face and it more or less wounded me, not because I felt as inferior as that fly as no one can ever reach that such a pit of worthlessness, that level of inferiority no matter how destitute they may be to the world and its residents because as thorny as life is, roses still grow and just as beautifully and wildly as they have when the saviour was still of flesh and also it did not hurt because I wanted to stay as no one ever wants to stay where they are not desired but it somehow hurt because I felt I wasted so much time cleaning out the floors of a house that never even treated me like a stranger because I would gladly become a stranger than no one at all.

It sort of stung because I spent my days trying to sniff out secrets that were never mine to know bargaining for trust or anything along those lines that would hopefully result in belonging. It frustrated me because I spent my Sunday devotions praying for answers that even God wanted to keep me away from, not even bruised knees made me worthy of their time, I foolishly became superwoman trying to save the very birds whose freedom depended on my letting go. It slightly hurt because I cashed my fortunes in the form of time or whatever was on request mending broken mirrors to households that would rather stay broken.

My heart sort of tore because I chanted beautiful melodies to dead children who found death more sweeter than my pest of presence, that I played the saving grace to a half empty hearts and I wept greatly when it hit me that perhaps someone out there feels exactly the same about me, knowing I will never know their identity in order to make right or better yet justify my errs because even our chief adversaries can dress themselves in convincing smiles.