Anti-Climatic Whimsy 

I do this a lot.

I dress my worries, concerns and ‘sigh’ stories in a series of unnecessary literary complexities because it has become increasingly easier to over-simplify the thoughts that race through my mind than to call them for what they are.

Nuisances

The thoughts, not yet spoken, bouncing around like a soda can about to be opened, and yet when the metal seal breaks it’s metal skin, instead of the expected rush of carbonated oral explosion, all I am capable of in that moment, is the gradual hiss of the sounds needed to ease off the pressure off my mind.

Carbon dissipates as the mind regulates back to norm, the coke losing the taste of what attracted its consumer.


I spend so much time navigating the whimsical nature of my mental landscape, as I and I argue the philosophical nature of the world I’ve been born in, often lamenting at how long the discussions take, and how little they manifest in reality.

Dreams upon dreams of change that I remain unsure as to whether or not they’d manifest in my lifetime.

One minute lost in the lands of Horizon Zero Dawn, marveling at the sight that a room of 100+ developers had managed to create, and the next minute, I’m sorting out the plans for my future, my scope, size and possibilities, seasoning the plate with relationship and familiar plans.


The world grows ever colder as the fires of hate burns brighter than ever. The broken branches of alliances being used to stoke the cold flame. The west and the east remain locked in a quiet battle as governmental figures joust with their words, their citizens being used as bet or worse, bait.

The rich acquire more as the not rich bleed the remains of their monthly gain into the pocket of the tax collectors and insurers. The healthy condemn the health service, hoping for dismantling even as the sick look towards the service that reminds them that they too are human.

We are taught that we are different, even though the we bleed the same red elixir of life when we are cut.

Truth is dismissed, regarded as a tool the media utilizes to control, as the people mistake facts for opinions. Lies become the standard of honesty, on the account of being able to “trust them to lie, hence implying i can trust them notwithstanding


 Fragility is one of the traits that represent humanity, in its delicate definition allowing humans to break… And be put together again.

And with our fragile hearts in its protected frame, we toss, pass and shoot like a game of handball, hoping that our hearts never quite touch the floor, but instead, make it into the court of whom our attraction is pointed towards.

Yet.
Emotional landmines litter the wall of life like a battlefield, waiting for victims to step on and watch their fragile hearts explode in pieces.

Then we spend the days/weeks/months/years carefully putting together what we saw break down. It’s frustrating, it’s hard, its delicate and tender, sore from its misuse. But we took, day in and day out at working to ensure we are protected for the next time, because we didn’t learn from the first time.

And still.

Even with all our hard work and sleepless, pillow wet nights, there always exists a missing piece to the full puzzle.

The eternal evidence that we will never really be whole again.

And that hurts.


I live in a world where my skin acts as the unwanted filter to whether or not i get particular  life choices. Like an RPG game, where I’m hindered from progression via a pathway simply because I’m of the wrong race. 

But we deal. 

We buckle down and adhere by the rules of the land. We assimilate and confirm because it’s easier. Or so we’d like to believe. 

It’s easier to listen.

It’s easier to not be eligible to buy a house because I’m not eligible for a loan of sorts.

It’s easier to work twice as hard for a position even though i already possess more qualifications than my counterparts. 

It’s easier to be shot dead simply because i appeared more threatening on account of my height and my skin colour. 

It’s easier to be profiled before speaking, then re-profiled for having a good grasp of the nation’s language, culture and art. 

And yet, I’m still hated on account of me being black. 


And then there’s you.

The average person trying to make ends meet, and better yet, achieve those childish dreams that made you colour books and play dress up.

I’m only a voice in the corner of the internet, having whimsical conversations with myself.

But you.

You can be great.

Heck, you ARE great.

Now i don’t know if anyone has told you lately, but take it from me… Me, the written calligraphic words on your screen.
I believe in you.

Go be Awesome.

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