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The Sun’s luminescence remains hidden behind the clouds in the sky.

Summer but yet, not summer.

I linger in my thoughts, choosing solace here instead of being social. My heart was not in it, so I refrain from my phone as the bus drives me and the rest of the weary passengers home. It had been a long day, not by fault of work, but more the happenstance of beginning the day later than expected.

A sigh escapes me as I close my eyes to dream of what may be and what is.

Formless.

I remain in this state of apparent darkness as my body’s fatigue had directed all my mental focus to ensuring it rests properly. Whatever was left took care of the normal body functions, giving no thought to the fact that it’s owner wanted to dream of fantastical things and wondrous opportunities.

I drift back out into the grey to monitor the progress of my journey home. Red light. Still minutes away. My silence maintains itself as my hand had confiscated my phone and placed it within the confines of my inner leather jacket. I’d scream for injustice because everyone else seemed to be glued to theirs but then I don’t care. The world’s focus has been so lustfully drawn by the electronic age that the good things in life, the normal things in time, have been lost.

The countryside that used to hold so much allure had lost its beauty crown to the newest gadget in town. The rapid expansion of numerous social networking applications severely cutting into the intimacy of conversing face to face. A phone message would rather be sent than actually planning to meet and bask in the presence of family, friends and colleagues alike.

And in the event that plans were made, and friends were met, the little 4-5 inch+ gadget still dominates the night as ‘Selfies’, ‘Tweets’ and ‘Instagram’ post become a reality.

Maybe I’m just being nostalgic…

Being born in the 90s has put me (and the rest of my ‘brood’) at the mercy of so much technological advancement that we can’t help but find ourselves reminiscing every now and then about when things were simple.

Because things are not that simple anymore.

 

So like if you know me, like as in know me even by a bit, you will know how much I detest being ‘late’.

I am not sure when the feeling became a thing, but for as long as I can remember, lateness is a habit that really, really grates on me. I can’t stand it. I can’t condone it. Especially being raised in a continent currently famous for being so late, we have our own timezone abbreviation; African Timing (AT).

———————–

So “What is African timing?”, I hear some of the cogs in your minds ask.

Well, African timing, is the time by which Africans actually attend an event.

“That’s not so bad…”

Well, no. It is horrible. See we don’t attend the event by the time set by the organiser. To be honest, I think we have become ‘too cool’ to do that, so instead we arrive +1/+2 hours after the event has actually started.

“I don’t get it”

Err… Say an event begins at 7pm GMT sharp. African timing dictates the party begins (if we had the +/-2 AT) at 9pm. Everyone else is just unnaturally early.

“…but the party started at 7pm…”

No. You say 7pm but you really mean 9pm.

“So you say if I organise a party, and put the start time to 7pm… Then the Africans will be there for…”

9pm.

“Wow.”

Yup.

“But that’s horrible.”

Hey!!! That is what I said!
———————–

Ignoring the slightly humorous conversation above, I really do hate lateness. I find it to connote a lot of things I am not comfortable with. Personally, lateness to me is a sense/sign of irresponsibility.

And as such, when I find myself late to work/party/event regardless of circumstance, I get visibly frustrated (briefly more often than not) because I feel like I’ve let my manager/friend/organiser down.

So I work on it. I try to eliminate possibilities of that happening.

“What’s the point of this post then?”

None. I just wanted to rant about a pet peeve. Don’t you have one too?

…it would appear I’ve been swinging to the extremes. I’m either suddenly very talkative, or I hug the cottage house pillow and retreat into myself like a snail. As it turns out, it’s not particularly due to any other reason than me trying to dwell retrospectively on my numerous actions.

Every now and then, I find myself thinking about all the things I’ve done, or planned to do, or accomplished, or messed up, or succeeded at. And every now and then, I find myself wishing I could speak to a younger version of myself.

It’s not even to impact wisdom or anything like that. My message to him would have been, would have always been me telling him it’s okay.

That it’s okay to not be prepared.

That it is okay to be scared.

That it is okay to fall for someone even if the feelings are ‘one-way’.

That it is okay to care, especially when it feels like no one seems to give a damn.

That it is okay to show how you really feel when things seem to be spiraling out of control.

That its okay to not know what comes next. To Let God do what he does best.

But most importantly, that he’s not alone. That he’s got friends who love him, family who cherish his presence and how different life would be if he could look higher, much higher past the clouds that he’s been staring at.

It’s going to be okay, because I’m okay.

So smile 🙂

I am not quite sure on how to begin.

I have been thinking of how I’d be able to fully express the feelings and emotions I am slugging through, but I haven’t quite found the expressions or words to articulate those particular emotions.

But thoughts, thoughts I have aplenty. Thoughts I can give.

As life would have it, I have begun what would probably be final next week Tuesday, the path to relocation. London is currently roughly 2 hours away by train, as I stay snug in the remote area of Knutsford, enjoying the beautiful sights of just green grasses and snow.

From a peaceful standpoint, it is excellent. Apart from that? I don’t know. I still don’t know.

I had assumed that 2 nights in the lovely little cottage house at the top of the hill would have assisted in helping me formulate how I ‘felt’ about the place, but I’m still torn in that particular dilemma. I love/hate it.

Work has moved me up North to join the regular snow sighters. And after waking up this morning to a cold atmosphere and snow in it’s purest form, I can quite safely say I am not prepared for the Temperature change…yet.

However, it is far more than that. For the first time since I carried my suitcase to Sussex, excited on how much I was going to enjoy University life, I find myself carrying my suitcase to a part of the world I haven’t lived in before.

This time however, it isn’t excitement. It is anxiety. Back then, I was barely an adult, embarking on the journey to adulthood and ‘freedom’. Now, I’m very much into adulthood and while freedom was craved, it was planned to be when I felt ready.

I got thrust into it.

Sudden, and unprepared, I’ve started the daunting journey of being on my own.

Don’t misunderstand. This is what I’ve always wanted; to move out of the parent’s house and start preparing to be on my own till, I find the ‘Mrs’ and then “1+1=1” the life equation.

I am just not fond of sudden changes. I’m on a shaky agreement with normal changes as it is. Suddenness freaks me out.

Let me not even get into the “Maybe this is your calling…” aspect of things.

Might have an anxiety issue and start eating my surface 3.

 

Nonetheless, “One step at a time.”

I don’t have a title yet.

But as per tradition, I will probably get one towards the end of whatever I’m writing down.

We are quite literally a stone throw away from March and already, I feel like I’ve experienced a lot of things this year already. Most of it is a re-affirmation of knowledge already gathered, and others are sort of like a lesson in wisdom (whether it be giving or getting).

In other words, some lessons are relatively basic, while the others haven’t been ‘basic’, to simplify.

I have been writing poetry since secondary school, when I was put given the task of reading some old English poetry and reviewing as part of my coursework. While initially, adverse to the idea of reading weirdly written sentences and words, I eventually figured it all out. It was just an expression of self, regardless of what was written.

So I started writing. Expressing myself in words because, as life would have it, it is currently the only way I can deal with my thoughts, emotions, feelings and myself. As it turns out, I have to, sometimes, write to myself to understand myself because, for some reason I am yet to figure out, my literary articulation, is much better than spoken words.

Thinking about it, it could be why I find spoken word weird for me, even though is a perfectly viable/interesting/confident method of giving people a view of the things one has written.

Nonetheless, I’m diverting. I wrote a couple of poetry last year, that I’m planning to release as a collection this year. I had hoped to do it earlier, but now I think i’m going to work to ensure that my idea for how I want it to look comes into fruition.

And part of the plan of that is to stop myself talk about it, and just working on it instead.

So I figure, I’d put up one more write-up regarding it, sort of as a public action plan, and then complete it in private before the next time, you hear me speak about it.

 

And this is it.

I can’t wait to share it to you, to be completely honest. And I hope you all enjoy it when it comes out.