Maybe the gift of life itself we all try to live was a series of false starts, which once discovered, called for more renewed efforts at yet another beginning. Yeah. . . Maybe.

Maybe. Maybe everything in life was simple, a matter of love and hate- Siamese twins; back to back in a human heart. Maybe. Maybe because you loved, you also hated: and because you hated, maybe you also loved. Maybe what you loved, decided what you would have to hate in relation to what you loved: maybe what you hated, decided the possibilities of what you would love in relation to that which you hated. You knew what you loved and what you hated by what you did, what actions, what side you had chosen. Maybe.

Maybe you’ve been lost at some point, lost in the abyss; jumbled thoughts, mixed emotions, of that which was paradise and you can’t just tell the difference: love and hate. How did one know what one loved and hated anyway?
Maybe in trying to live a life you’ve been naive before, dumb and crazy, doing wrong to people who have done you right before and doing right to people who have done you wrong as well. It’s life. Maybe. You grow up. Smarten up. Get better. And want peace. Maybe.

Maybe in living as well you’ve lived in such a society: a society in which one could only be clean by wiping his dirt and shit and urine on others, a society in which one could only be healthy by making others carry one’s leprosy, a society in which one could only be saintly and moral and upright by prostituting others, and the victims of a few people’s cleanliness and health and saintliness and wealth are expected to always accept their lot and fate. It’s a ruthless state don’t you think? It could only lead to despair and self-or mutual annihilation. Maybe. Maybe you’ve done something about it, or you’ve not at all. Maybe. Who knows, maybe you’ve been the oppressor. Why, anyway?
Or maybe the true lesson of history was this: that the so-called victims, the poor, the downtrodden, the masses, had always struggled all they can, maybe with their songs of courage and hope from their wretched souls, to end their oppression and exploitation: that they would continue struggling until a human kingdom came maybe: a world in which goodness and beauty and strength and courage would be seen in not how cunning one can be, not in how much power to oppress one possessed, but only in one’s contribution in creating a more humane and friendly world in which the inherited inventive genius of man in culture and science from all ages and climes would not be the monopoly of a few, maybe, but for the use of all, so that all flowers in all their seeds would be put into the ground and they would once again sprout and flower in rain and sunshine: maybe.
Maybe, deep in the dark of night, and in every rooster’s crow, dog’s bark and crane’s call, in every deep laugh and overfed hunger, sweat and toil, struggles, brilliant smile and curious stares, maybe, they have had tones of homes- the oppressed, and all they need this time, maybe, is one with no walls, roof or doors, but rather a simple sign hanging from the branch of a tree reading:

Land rich and fertile, plant dreams here.


Maybe the gift of life itself we all try to live was a series of false starts, which once discovered, called for more renewed efforts at yet another beginning, and that the so called history, was a dance in a huge arena of God: you played your part, whatever your chosen part, and that you left the arena, maybe, swept aside by the waves of a new step, a new movement in the dance. Other dancers, younger, brighter, more incentive came and played with even greater skill, with more complicated footwork, before they too were swept aside by yet a greater tide in the movement they had helped to create, maybe, and other dancers were thrown up to carry the dance to even newer heights and possibilities undreamnt of by an earlier generation. Maybe.

Maybe it’s high time God’s bits of wood considered letting go when the time is ripe. Let it be. . . Let it be. . . Maybe one doesn’t realise time is over, fated by present circumstances to remain who you are; on the verge of a new beginning. Maybe. You played your part, as a user or the used. Either way, maybe it’s time to stay, stay away. Maybe.


Author: Wendo Kenyanito

In this quiet church of writing, i say Amen.

21 thoughts on “Maybe”

  1. I really enjoyed this read. What struck me at first was the photography. That was a great photo and the use of black and white was very effective. I really liked the part about hating something because of how it relates to something you love. I think that is very true for lots of people and gladly I can say that I am not one of those people. This may sound trivial but as a sports fan we are often taught to hate our rivals. I am a san francisco giants fan and our big rivals are the dodgers. I root for my giants but I have no feelings of hate for the dodgers. I realize you are talking about deeper issues but that is what came to mind for me. I found you in the community pool post.

    Liked by 3 people

    1. Thank you for your kind words. I am glad you enjoyed the read. Your example of how sports relates with love and hate is well understood.
      I love vintage clothing and that explains my photo too.
      Again, thanks a lot for passing by too.

      Liked by 1 person

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