Random Thoughts and Things

sometimes

i like to believe i am that raindrop

falling and landing on your window and looking in

slowly rolling down, gliding

closing my eyes with you as you rest your head against the cool glass and breathe

feeling the warmth through the glass evaporate me to a rainy day mist and back to my dreams where i wake up and realise it’s another rainy day without you.

Happy

I don’t know how this goes, this happy thing

I don’t know how I’m supposed to smile and skip and sing… I suppose?

I’m not ungrateful, don’t get me wrong

But I haven’t felt this way in way too long

Nothing seems to be going wrong

And all my sadness seems to be gone

I don’t know what to do without the hopeless

Or what to do with this sudden fearless

This thing inside that tells me I can do anything

I believe it all suddenly, when I’ve never believed in anything

Fire now, to me, is light

Not endless burning pain every dark-lit night

Hope is what I think I feel,

Not a word I don’t believe is real

Life is a gift I love to take out of the box and hold,

Not a pointless idea I’ve heard as a nightmare many times retold

I don’t remember the dark shadows anymore

I don’t see my failure facing me everywhere I go

I guess its safe to say I’m ok,

In a “really, I swear I am” kind of way.

I know, I know… I may not deserve this happy thing

But damn it all, who ever really did?

Her Purple Dress

The purple of her dress caught his eye as she walked by. Now, he had seen many purple dresses in many different ways, but never one on her in that way.

You know the ways of a dress, yes?

The way fabric whispers the secrets of her skin

The way the wind dances and twirls with her every step

The play of the light on the different shades of colour…

Yes, you know the ways of a dress.

So there he sat, watching her walk across the room,

The room lighting up like a cliché and him unable to look away

He watched her move and wondered how anyone could fail to believe in love

Love at first sight, because every time he sees her is like the first time. Cliché, he shakes his head, he smiles, but is it not a cliché because it is true?

The way she moves, he sighs to himself, am I the only one who sees?

The purple dress sways as she reaches out and takes his hand. “Come, my dearest. We must dance..”

He allows himself to be guided to the floor and thinks “I wonder when she got that dress. It sure is some dress.”

She is “Woman Enough”

I’m not a feminist, I’m not sexist, but enough is enough. I have had enough. Why must we be judged on how well we can bake a cake or how many hours we spend taking care of a fully grown male who can very well fend for himself?? Before I go on let me just say I am what some may call a stepford-wife-type female. But the important thing is that is MY choice. I like to bake. I like to cook. I like to look pretty and be called cute and flutter my eyelashes, the whole nine yards. But that is what I want. My parents would love for me to be a driven career woman out there slaying corporate dragons and dominating the world one promotion at a time but its not what I want. And that’s the most important thing. What I choose for ME. That’s why I’m not offended when I’m mocked as a stereotype.

But what about all those girls out there who feel less than adequate because society thinks they should be “normal” and not want to work so hard at the office for that promotion or not be so good at math or not wear that pair of trousers because its not “feminine” or pretty?? There is this phrase I hear being thrown around a lot. It goes like “She is not woman enough for me.” and it is usually in reference to a career oriented woman or a woman who doesn’t fit into the category of normal or ordinary (whatever that is supposed to be). Who gave anyone the right to crush someone’s dreams because it doesn’t fit into their view of what a real African woman should be like? A real African woman doesn’t always have to wear a chitenge (wrapper) and slave away in the kitchen all day and humbly say yes to whatever her pompous entitled domineering husband says. A real African woman is a woman who knows what she wants, where she belongs, and knows that she is defined by what is contained within her spirit and not what is contained in the empty-headed ideals of an oppressive society. I say anyone who says she is not woman enough because she prefers getting her PhD to having children is not intelligent enough to have an opinion on anything.

There is the widely held view in Africa that if you are not married with two kids by the time you are at least 25 you are ruined and your life is unfulfilled and headed towards failure. If you are not married by the time you are 30 then no one will ever want you and you should become desperate and marry anything that comes along. I believe that every woman should have the freedom to chose what she wants and not expect ridicule. I cant wait for a time when there shall be no women’s rights issues. Women shall be seen as human and not a subhuman species made to fit the ideals of and bend to the will of men.

That being said, let me add this disclaimer: not all men are terrible creatures. Some I can actually live with.

What would be ideal is a society where a woman decides what she would like to achieve and her tireless pursuit of her goals makes her woman enough. There I said it.

The War Without

Be still, my bleeding heart.

They have broken your wings, and tell you to fly

They have stolen your song, and tell you to dance

They have corrupted your voice, and urge you to speak the truth

They loath you, and want you to love

They have ridiculed the mystery of your inner strength flowing red like blood, but tell you you are beautiful

They have poisoned your blood, and tell you to live.

Take courage, my failing heart.

They may have won this battle, but we will not give up the fight.

Love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds.. nor bends with the remover to remove.. oh no! ‘tis an ever fixed mark, which looks on tempests and is never shaken.. if this be error upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Truth isn’t always beauty, but the search for it is.

Magic Is…

I love you, in this space, in this time, perhaps forever.
I love us, right now, with our whispers and shades and modified affection
I love me, with you, who I am, where I know I belong when you say my name again…and again
I love love, when it is with you, in you, always, it is you
This is… magic.
We are magic, I guess,
because magic to me is looking at you and knowing your heart and without having you say a word
Magic is the light in your eyes just before you close them when I kiss you
Magic is your hands in mine, the way your palms feel against my skin
Magic is the sound of your voice, like crystal water flowing or a soft breeze blowing
Magic is your eyes,your lips, your skin, and the way they all work together to make a face only God could have dreamt of and crafted in love
Magic is… you. And you are my soul. Magic is us.