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.