And when those days occur, those awful days you feel those emotional strains brush your heart with rage, cutting deeper and deeper, melting you like butter, when you feel perhaps you can never fall in love, or you can’t even enjoy love itself without a certain unconsciousness of mind, when you feel you have never known love that has not betrayed you, when you feel it’s you who is said to adhere to melancholy, when you feel there’s no romance in your life that seems to be on the ledge, with no one to talk you down and tuck you in bed, when you feel the sorrows society told you to drown by the pond have learnt to swim and are now wading to your direction to marry your heart, when you feel humanity has made a love story out of your tragedy, when you feel taking control of your life again is akin to driving the proverbial bus whose passengers include the village mad man, the local night-runner, the suave pick-pocket, the self-declared masochist and many other variants of deviant personalities majority of whom are hardly even aware of their destination but keep screaming incoherent instructions to the driver on how to steer the bus, when you feel denied, rejected, cast into a pot of forgetfulness, depressed, haunted by memories from your past, betrayed, when you feel there’s no need in believing in people anymore, and that you had been looking upto the wrong heroes, or you had been looking for actors and heroes in places where they could not possibly be found, when, in that moment of despair you feel you’re becoming closer to the fatal mistake of losing faith in people and in the possibilities of truth and beauty and ideals in a world where people are daily struggling for bread and water, when you feel, just like the human body itself, the people around you would rather show you false positives (the false pain of an aching arm, which is actually a sign of heart trouble) than do away with the sensors all together, when you feel yourself coiled in a ball of shame, ashamed of yourself, struggling so much getting nothing done; running so fast and getting nowhere in particular; picking up so much, keeping nothing; so full and yet so empty, when those days occur, those terrible days you feel defeated, beaten and pounded by life’s heavy fists, when survival for the fittest has been passed as the law on earth, when you feel stranded at crossroads, unsure of your next step, longing for my return, weep not my dear one, for with great delicacy I was lifted offground, carried like a baby to a world of roses- roses without thorns.
For once in a while, life puts on big gloves stuffed with dried cement- and clean knocks us out! What you must do is get up, bloodied, battered but not beaten- and keep swinging!
Till we meet again, dear one.
(The departed speak of life after death)
© Wendo Kenyanito.