A moment

 

I’ve been bugged, really been bothered, in an absolutely bothersome way to  write today. At any moment, the gates of whatever would have been opened and I would have payed dearly, in ways that I know not of, for not having listened to the call to write,which just goes to prove that the call to write is not really a myth, it is the mantle of Elijah, something that manifests inself into a burden, which in effect leaves me writing. I have been called to write today, is simply how I would paraphrase these lines, but you know that already.

I know my favourite thing to write on earth is about who I have become, like entrails from a deer. Why not a horse? Why entrails? I have absolutely no idea, because, remember again if you will, I have merely been called to write again today, and that is exactly what I am doing; writing as I have always done,in days previous to this one. Similar to it but not quite it. About what then? Well…

On who I have become. Someone out there says we become and never return to what we have evolved from. Someone talks about stages and we know there is no land of return, because a change implicitly leaves us altered and explicitly, yes, truely there are new vocalizations attained, of our temperaments, outlooks on life…I was meant to be talking about myself. I forgot.

I could say I have become(been) blurred(out) like a melted piece of crayon, not chalk. There is the maybe..maybe I should read more , to write more, but this begs the question of what effectiveness there is to having  words written. With eyes that have fasted from paper, from the thriftiness of obsessive expression, an apparel like no other, one that demands in ways that leaves you without understanding as to why…

I have written. I know that it was necessary as the spirit beckoned. It is written

 

 

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open your window

My eyes looked down, across the screen to where we all collectively have the words ‘move to trash’ and i chuckled. This does not add or take anything away from my intended story, or the appeal to open your window, no matter how much you see the need to not engage in that precise activity of opening your window. much ado over nothing that isn’t in anyway important to me, or you or any living creature who finds itself committed to reading this blog post to the end. i shall dust my shoes now and chuckle some more.

Chuckling completed. what then is left for us except to remain on this page and wait for what will come at us? i know, you know that I know that you are tired of hearing how long it’s been since I wrote anything, but I know, you know– we all know to be very honest, that I shall still mention it once more, precisely from habit, or tradition, maybe culture, or probably not. Rein your horses, gentlewomen! I think I physically was engaged in reining in horses because I am out of breath, hypothetically. I like being hypothetical about things that require no study into the true nature of things, as you can tell by all the signs–don’t ask me what or where—that there is no need for studies, in general. generally speaking.

To further complicate matters, let’s get right into the topic of today since we have decided it isn’t about windows or opening them or about opening them in succession. It isn’t even about writing about why I have not written or anything to the effect of that. It isn’t really about anything, and this should, if it hasn’t by now, done something at least in intimating a fail of some sort on the plan of literacy. oh, give it a break , Lizzy, shall we? Lol

Apparently, this did not go as planned but i liked it, so that’s what you get. See you in the next blog post.

On boring but hopeful lives

   For the past three days, I’ve been going back and forth as I try to fight for what i want to be the last time, my infamous despondency. I have chosen hope inspite of it all. I have chosen to always be hopeful no matter what and to achieve this i had to go over again the usual process of painful reviews to give up my life again to God, to give up all the things I don’t understand and still ruminate upon as a final offering. This requires acknowledging them(for the 19484949403040…time) and moving on from there. I have decided that there are more or less normal lives and normal stories to tell, but for some reason mine had to be told to and it didn’t matter if it was a deviation, it still had to be told and God thought i would be the perfect candidate. like it or not, it is what it is and it is a life I have been called to live. I have fought it and why-ed me for so long that i am tired and just want to accept and move on.

I am not currently living the life I imagined I would, just like millions of people around the globe. In that sense, I am not special. There are things I want right now that I will never again have, I will have to learn to desire new things and imagine that i have always wanted them. I miss having a mother. It is a little known fact maybe, that if I had one still alive, I’d never have started blogging, I’d never have had the need to observe the world so strictly and try to come to conclusions to satisfy a mind whose grip on conclusions like these are loose. But I have started blogging and I have become that type of philosopher and now purveyor of hope.I have come to accept that I am also suffering the consequences of my parents poor decisions in life. yes, it is possible that if there had been no abortions, i would have had siblings and my family would not have struggled all my life going to different places for the so called fruit of the womb, that if a less promiscious and thoughtful life had been lived by my father, he would have had older children at this time when he needs such around him to take care of him, I would not be feeling perpetually poor and I would have had my mother alive instead of feeling like an orphan whose contact with her father in a year can be summed up as less than thirty minutes of two minutes phone calls every three months.

There shouldn’t be any reason for hope, i don’t see one when I look at how far away my mother’s grave is, in a village I would not want to step my feet in unless i was planning to die the next week, when i wonder who would bury my father if he should reach the end of his life while I am still unsettled as an independent adult, who will go to perform traditional rites…the situation is so foolish and a result of general thoughtlessness and false optimism. And this is my inheritance. Not strength, not encouragement, but I seem to have inherited or will be on my way to inheriting a handful of tragic moments in the future. It feels sometimes like waiting for that train to collide even when you’re not bound and can escape. It feels like the escape routes are filled with more of such trains and this is your—my end.

 

Where does hope come in? I don’t know. But maybe this is just where it does comes in. Because looking around me, there is nothing to be hopeful about, there’s no foundation on this earth for me to stand upon, nothing solid. It’s all waste and desolate. Maybe it is in this place where i am faced with brick walls and sinking sand that I can finally take all my hopes from the ground and lift them up as a final bargain, believing that there is nothing bigger than God, because man is so small for the problems in my head, for the problems yet unknown, for the problems currently trying to get constrict me. Because free from the distractions of having more options, I can finally just focus on saying that God should just lead this life where He wants it to go, with all the losses, with all the struggles, because there’s nowhere else to go and i have no fanciful ideas of my own. I have chosen to hope.

“Hope be my anthem

Lord when the world has fallen quiet

You stand beside me

Give me a song in the night”

-Hillsong( Jesus I need you)

3 years Liz-o-pen

WordPress sends the message that I have been blogging here for three years now. It doesn’t matter as much as it should to me. These occasions are celebratory ones for fresh, less world-weary sorts of people. People who are unlike me buried with my mortality and perpetual loneliness. so, to celebrate, in a certain way spurred on by savagery or a cruel desire to taint the demeanor of the world with more weariness and the appaling sort of stability, I have taken to celebrating it with a blog post and be just like everyone else.

I have had a miserable sort of day. brace thineselves, for the one who has this sort of sadness adapted to her should probably be more of the complainer than the sharer or reader joining in the endeavour of reading and finding out more about how the day went. What? did anyone hurt you? No. Same answer I gave to my well-meaning grandmother who hugged me and kissed me but somehow whose warmth I did not feel. I’ll admit, I guiltily did not feel, but I cannot help it. I am not self-indulgent in my misery, but more of a victim to the spaces in my head, convoluted with flashbacks, with heat, with pain and with longing and what feels like a discarded life. This is a paragraph of disregard. surprisingly, it feels like my best paragraph so far.

That being stated, I have had to hear of stories of friends I love whose lives are filled with hardships and sadness and this has spilled into mine. I want everyone to be happy, but this is not always the case and many times very rarely the case that it is hard to have my spirit elevated. The foreboding of disaster draws close on my neck, making my hairs stand. No one cares as they should. No one understands as they should. we are alone. This is what spurgeon speaks of when he says friends depart and only Jesus remains immutable. It is an old lesson.

It might be the heat, the summer that never ends as the flies that come with it, it might be the new season, whatever that may be , the apathy that comes with it, that spaces go on forever, life is too long, and everything repeats itself and why shouldn’t the thing just end already. Or it maybe my need to get busy because things are bland just as I had suspected for a while. So far as it doesn’t yet end–life, I mean, after being miserable and feeling the weight of the oppression of hopelessness , I decided, come what may, I will just be and hold the horns of whatever bull. May it crush me or should it not, then I stand a chance at living and life, so I have decided to push on as I , in that peculiar loneliness that comes to people the higher they climb is motivated somehow. It is tough to accept that going back to that plane where it is easy to meet people who can grasp easily might never happen, but being one of a kind is not entirely peculiar to me.

Tomorrow promises some new adventure, a slight one, but whatever. If nothing matters to anyone, one more or less shouldn’t cause me fear.

Sharing sto–

Today marks the eve of being twenty three. I have been thinking about it but the desire to write about it isn’t present. All words irritate me. I don’t like their familiarity on the page, the way they smugly demand progression. Noun, verb, a qualifier; from which all thoughts proceed. It shouldn’t be too sure of itself. But I am writing today, because I might like the re-aquaintance. It’s not for me to state anything new, to give reports of my hidings or “whereabouts” as it demands to be called. I don’t want to. I have enjoyed this distance from my penning as it had rid me of the need to constantly forage out skills, things to adopt from the creativity of another. Instead, I read for my amusement, to enjoy, to walk a terrain without any need to know anything specific, to learn anything intentional. It’s just what I have been missing. I just be. I just be. I just be. Not am.

I even have been able to be consistent on the exercise thing. I feel better , even happier as far as I can tell. Moulding in a chilly room, I turn on the music, join in a dance routine, smiling , I end up releasing those feel goodies while getting the body that they say I want.Of course, I want. That together with keeping warm. I have missed days, but never without compensating. The benefits are compelling for me to stop ever again, I believe. Also, I know better now that to set boundaries of time to achieve something. It’s more long term now. If I go on like this, I tell myself, even without the intensity I should have choosen in the early days; days like the beginning of this year, I know I have put in one tiny block into the building and that is always something. Something over nothing.

Against the usual. Really, this is where this note ends. It’s more on my terms these days, as there’s nothing humanly compelling enough to hold me back from forcefully or maybe lazily holding down my weight as I push my own piece of individuality out there. 

Revel

Hi, invisible and visible fam. I knew I would never get to writing this if I didn’t write it, so I will write it? And these first few sentences will read rushed because I need to get the words- any words down before I can be picky with my choice of words. I am sick. This is no news. I seem to always be ill. But I don’t have a reason to be sick, yet I have a fever that doesn’t want to let go and go down, and so we’re here–stuck and just there, thinking about how life has treated us so far and what being twenty two means. It means nothing, I tell you, because it just about means a lot of things and that is just too much to mean anything substantially personal or unique. I know however that it has been recommended to me–and I am not opposed to it that…anyway, truth be told, I am under great compulsion to turn 23 in a month’s time. A younger friend by three months has already turned 23 without my permission and this is frightening and a sin of double crossing. Yes, she has received the warning and knows I don’t like to feel older than I am and so she should learn to enjoy being younger still while I reach the mark and set the pace. Lol, Titi, I really did spend the paragraph on this. Shameless me.
As an old  person now, I now see that it’s never too late to start anything. For all the failed attempts to get anything done; my exercise routine, my face massage routine, my learning new things etcetera( I’m pretty bored writing this 🙂 – another part of old age) I’ve realized I can start at any time. I no longer feel like bullying myself into accepting defeat at how much could have changed and where I would have been if I had started three months ago for example. It’s better when there is no pressure, no sickening need for results. That’s only when anyone can do anything happily. So I hope I never have to make decisions like : you know what , from tomorrow my life will change drastically, I will start doing so and so. Frankly, it won’t work and I don’t need that extreme and upsetting change. 
There are things we should never aspire to. Like what you have. I’m not a short girl with 4c afro hair. Will never have a full head of that kind of thick, tightly coiled hair because my hair has some straightened texture in it which is a bit confusing. I have a mixture of hairs on my head, and that’s fine. I don’t have the stamina to do many things and that too is fine. The rest I cannot mention because I want to sleep( the cheek!) but I’m accepting all those things and moving on to use the things I have whilst appreciating those who have other things. 

Ask questions

  • Sometimes you need to hear someone else speak.

Yesterday morning I sighed many times as I engaged in a vulgar version of a prayer session where I asked why I was stuck and going nowhere. I am not stuck, I know. Progression is not something I can control, but my perception is impressionable, so I might as well have been stuck and I needed an answer, some explanation for this thoughtlessness in matters concerning me. Do you know? I asked God, that so and so–I listed real names, does not desire half the things I desire to be and yet, you give them so freely, and for me, you set traps, you quite literally frustrate me like an enemy. You act like the devil himself towards me, like you hate me. You must hate me, I told God, because there is no explanation for this, none I can understand right now, and I sighed. And I said too that I did not care whose stories were being used as examples of his faithfulness, that they were unbelievable, and I would be the only material to be used to test the scriptures. Not another’s life, but mine, and I sighed again.

I don’t know how many people are bold enough to blaspheme and tell the voice that speaks to them when they are feeling wounded and slighted to fokof, but I do and then I cry and get some recklessness spirit as my reward for a while, until God helps me again. My day progressed, and towards the evening, I was cruising on feel good hormones and studies, till I decided to contact a friend just as I was listening to even when it hurts by hillsong. I listened quietly, sang some words and sent a message to this friend, a former secondary school mate, a senior then but a friend for  close to seven years now.I asked waddup?
I’d almost forgotten how much this friend loves to talk and tell me about his life, and how easy it was to not have to respond to keep it going. It was relaxing to just know things and think as I was getting to know them, and I realized too that it’s rare for me to have conversations with people who just present me with life lessons on a platter . I have said before that it’s tiring to always be the one teaching people things, and it would be nice to just get lessons and be a student to someone, and that’s what happened. My former senior prefect from secondary school schooled me just by telling me how his life was going, what he was learning, and how God was teaching him to let go of things he could not control, how to make his internal solitude converge properly with his outward life, how to forgive people, how to let God lead you and how to follow blindly, and all this while I’d asked for nothing specific. Something was leading him to talk.I don’t think my friend realized how much I feel that conversation was like an answer to my morning sighs, how speaking about his own life was inspiring, because it was, and I told him it was and thanked him for sharing. I realize then that nothing is random. Not my morning sighs, not the pressure to reach out at that time, even when we don’t speak as often, not his lessons which were brimming and in need of someone else’s eyes and mind. Maybe God does orchestrate after all.

What I was reminded of by him, was my sores can be forgotten. I have a choice to focus on that or remove my mind from them. I can do this. I can have grace and can do this if I want to. He also said it would be very hard, it’s very hard to be a fool and turn the other cheek. It’s hard to let go and just let God lead. He also said that sometimes we don’t understand even with the information. Look at the disciples, they knew Jesus would be killed, he told them many times, yet when it happened, they were perplexed. They had no understanding even when they had information. Same with us, we have been told it will be hard, yet when it is difficult, we ask questions and doubt. We are like those without understanding. I realized again after this that speaking about God with a living friend who is living the Christian reality is something I miss. It’s always more relatable when someone you actually know and have known for a long while can display living like Jesus for you, not someone in America, some vague place living in a blog post, but a real human with struggles you’re familiar with, with a name you can trace. That was my coming down to earth moment. I don’t regret asking God to explain what he’s doing, and I don’t regret asking him if my life would be a good measure of his faithfulness to anyone looking for an example, because sometimes my faith needs to be strengthened. I need to know too that this is not a farce, and I’m not being a stupid believer.