Destructively deconstructing destructive distractions

Dazzled in an array of fine light

Glowing embers upon the hearth

I find you

Resting. Waiting.

Upon my arrival at this brief interval, filled with turmoil and dread

I still find you. Wandering through my head

Whether it be accompanied by another man

Flowing upon a river of love

Caressing the soft virgin features of some one else

I still find you.

Perched upon a tree

Precariously overlooking the sight of my shortcomings

Graciously gazing upon the acts of my love

Taunting me with those sweet eyes

Those pale thighs

Those tender lies that you spit

So viciously as I recoil

Redress. Regress.

Sink into the inviting warmth of your rapture

You're subtle. Motionless

I digress.

  

The shattered dreams that hung so precariously over yonder

Over that cliff

Over that hill

I find you.

Wasting away your days chasing after fantasies

Mindless ones that gnaw at the heart strings of a careless teen

Passionate ones that fill the minds of lusty housewives 

Careless mistakes that I would rather live to not regret

Childhood memories that one would sooner forget

Lest they attack you with the sudden hunger of a drunken uncle on a solitary and unaccompanied visiting hour

Cherishing each memory as if it were special

Ignoring the flaws of each member involved

Harmlessly setting fire to the fields of wheat that the village needs

Destructively deconstructing destructive distractions

And that is how I feel when I am with you.

Reading is awesome!

I've taken to 'reading' quite often during the past couple of weeks. Not 'reading' in the sense that you'd think of the verb but 'reading' as in the action of picking up a book and planning your entire future based on the contents of the pages. 'Reading' as in deliberately putting everything else on the back burner in order to accommodate your new found obsession.

I quite like the idea of reading. I suppose I've fallen more in love with that than anything else in the past few weeks. I don't know why, it's just that the thought of picking up a book and immersing myself in someone else's world absolutely excites me. It excites me more than warm toast and the butter has just melted and is gracefully gliding down the rough surface if the toast and into every crevice...

I find that I often get scared when starting a new book. I'm scared of opening the book and taking in that glorious, musty smell of recycled paper and immersing myself into a new world. I'm scared of taking in the beauty of every letter typed into the page; of every grammatical or spelling error that I may encounter; of every stain or pen mark left by a careless reader which I may encounter. 

I'm scared of falling in love with the characters. And I'm especially scared of letting them go.

It goes like this: I make all sorts of new friends in these books. These weird and wonderful characters who don't care about my height, weight, personality or general appearance because they'll never meet me anyway. And I'll never meet them, which makes me very sad. 

I mean, what do you do when you have completely immersed yourself into someone else's world and then you're violently pulled out of it? I find that once I near the end of a great novel, I procrastinate more and come up with more reasons as to why I shouldn't read it. Well, right now at least.

I never want to let go of these characters. I don't want Richard and Sally to get married just yet. I want them to carry on this incessant game of 'cat-and-mouse' that annoys the hell out of me. I don't want Martha to tell her parents that she's a lesbian just yet because I keep replaying in my head how badly that scenario would turn out. Or it could turn out quite beautifully and they would hug and kiss her and tell her that they still love her and that everything will be okay. Even though things in these sorts of stories are never okay. Well, not really. 

It turns out that Uncle Ben raped Sally when she was younger so she thinks that Richard will do the same to her and she stabs him ten times on their wedding night at The Hilton. She then stumbles out on the street and Martha's car strikes her down and instantly kills her. Martha was on her way to her parents' house from the hospital after finding out that her lover have her AIDS because she's secretly a back-room whore at the Chateau Mormont. Martha leaves the scene and reaches her parents' house and tells them everything and they comfort her and tell her that they are all going to live happily ever after.

Only they don't because Martha dies from AIDS as karma because she didn't turn herself in. Sally is buried in some dingy graveyard next to her husband but they get their names wrong and no one ever comes to visit them. And Martha's lover is still working at that back-room whore house, only this time she's into into men.

Notes from A Dark Skinned Girl

When I was younger, I was always comfortable in my own skin. As a child, I was happy and carefree; not concerned with matters of beauty and the like. I never looked at my mum and wondered why she was of a lighter skin tone than me. I never looked at her hair and wondered why it was a different color from mine. No. I was above such trivial things.

I preferred to content myself with crazy experiments I conducted in my grandparents's garage. I would empty old teabags into an old honey jar and add in all numbers of eclectic ingredients; lemon tree leaves; freshly-squeezed lemon juice; mud and leftovers. I remember the triumphant look I wore on my face when I stole a glossy brown egg from the pantry and added it to my mixture; then the ashen look I wore as I bowed my head under the heat of a heavy scolding. 

                          ***  

When I moved to Botswana to be with my mum, I had to start a new school. I had no friends and had just entered my adolescence. Everything was foreign to me. I had never seen a guy, save for my best friend's brother, and wasn't prepared for the onslaught of emotions that struck me when I first saw him. The frantic increase in heartbeats; the sweat dripping out of my pours and the obvious stutter in my words as I spoke to him; the widening of my eyes and the dilation of my pupils as I gazed upon him. All that crap. (/_\)

                          ***

And yet I felt inferior. It grew worse when I came to high school and it is still there; hanging over my head like a dark cloud of depression. I noticed it everywhere. Every guy wanted either a white girl or a yellow bone. All the guys I liked at least. That's how I grew to hate my skin tone even more. I know that people always say that black is beautiful and everything and that I should be thankful for my skin tone. I haven't woken up once in my teenage years and said, "Holy sh** I'm beautiful!" 

I haven't. Yet.

I'm still a teenager. There may still be time. Perhaps one day I will wake up and realize my full beauty and feel comfortable in my own skin for once in my life. But for now, I will remain in the dark, contemplating how much better people would treat me if I were lighter skinned.

                        ***

Sadly that is a very prevalent factor in my region of Africa; the whole of Africa in fact. Lighter skinned people are seen as superior and more attractive. That's why women aspire to appear more white in order to attract mates. They cake their skin with poisons that claim to lighten their skin but end up causing irreparable damage to themselves. I would never do that to myself: no matter how much I hate my skin tone.

Maybe. Someday.

Bad Religion

She was scared.

She was alone.

As she knelt down, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped and head bowed in prayer

Her lips quivered as she whispered her routine prayers

She was terrified

Petrified.

But how could she be?

This was her life wasn't it?

Funny, isn't it

When people stay together out of habit

Not out of love, but

Simply because you couldn't possibly picture yourself with someone else

Anyone else

The thought of being alone,

The thought of being put out of your daily routine,

Could terrify most into living a life on unhappiness.

So she stayed there

Kneeling,

As was her routine

It was dictated to her

Drummed into her skull throughout the course of her life,

"If you convert, He won't love you anymore."

"If you refuse to believe, you will be punished for your sins. Bad things will happen to you and your loved ones until you learn your lesson and repent."

"If you question Him, then you are just asking for trouble."

So this was how she would have to function

For the rest of her life

She would live in fear

She knew that this wasn't the right way to think

Not the right way to live

Not the right way to be.

She was taught the He was supposed to save her

That He would keep her safe in all of her endeavors

That He would protect her from all the evil in this world

But she was also taught to fear Him

To fear Him above anything else

Or else she would go to Hell

To respect Him above anyone else

Or else she would go to Hell

To kindly follow all His teachings

Even the ones he didn't truly understand or believe

Or else she would go to Hell

She loved Him

As a child,

He believed that He loved her too

But it was too much now

She was taught to fear

But if she questioned

She would be dead.

           -"If it brings me to my knees, then      it's a bad religion."

Submission

Temptation.

Passion.

Ecstasy.

Fear.

Confined in a minute room

Lying exposed on a cold, concrete floor

Exposed to the dark figure lounging on the chair

Cold. 

Cold air blows across my body, 

Goosebumps rise across my skin

As he slowly gets up and shambles towards me, bottle in hand

With a hungry look in his eyes 

Hunger. 

Desperation.

He runs his cold fingers across my warm skin

My body shudders, shying away from his touch

He draws his hand away, and

And. And. And.

Slowly, he seductively unzips his trousers

The sound echoing across the room

The room remains still

As I watch in anticipation

In a sick, twisted silence  

Pleasuring myself

Relishing the thought of his touch

I tremble. 

He sashays his way towards me.

Seductively.

I lick my lips; dry, chapped and cracked

He caresses my skin

He leans in closely to whisper seductive secrets in my ear

I shudder.

He is absolutely vile

His remarks are repulsive,

Yet, that won't stop him.

He reaches for the straps of my bra

He slips them off, slowly

Staring intensely into my eyes

Licking his lips.

It drops to the floor.

Clothes form a small puddle 

Crumpled by our feet.

Kicking.

Biting.

Screaming.

Pain.

Pleasure.

Ecstasy.

Nails scratching,

Catching skin underneath.

Ripping and tearing at flesh

Leaving red scratches across pale skin.

Hot.

Breathless.

Gasping.

I cling onto him

Clutching onto his strong shoulders

My nails digging into his skin

Blood pulsating.

Bodies sweating.

Legs shaking.

And suddenly, my body stops shaking.

In one instance, I am overcome

The waves hit me

Swelling inside of me like a massive tsunami

He pushes me back down,

I let my body relax

But only for a moment

Wary of what he might do to me next

He lethargically pulls himself off me

As if I disgust him

And I do.

I do disgust him.

And I disgust myself.

How can something so bad be so good?

I lie there, on the cold concrete floor

My chest heaving

Panting heavily

Sweat dripping out of every crevice on my body

Tired from the exertion.

And I watch him.

I watch his large, looming figure

As he carries something toward me.

A rope.

I groan.

My body aches all over,

Yet, he never seems to tire.

"That was satisfactory," he says.

"But would you mind bending over? We're going to play a little game."

I moan and roll over obediently.

It still hurts. 

Nick: A Collection of Short Stories

Nicholas R. J. Harrison is your typical young man, except he is a little different from everyone else. For all his life, Nick has pondered the reality of the afterlife and has tried at every turn to live that reality. There's only one problem. Every attempt of his is thwarted by his arch-nemesis: Death. 

Now this all may sound strange to you but hear me out. This is just a tester series to bide the time until I come up with something great so you'll all have to deal with my mindless meanderings into writing fiction. 

Imagine how tough it must have been for all those immortal gods in all those Greek tragedies that your teacher reads to you and you always doze off; to have to live through eons and eons of human beings basically acting the fool and fucking up the world. It must have sucked, right? 

Well imagine no longer, for I will appease all of you by dedicating my own short works to the life of Nicholas R. J. Harrison, the boy who could never die. Enjoy the slightly disturbing tales of a boy who at every attempt, tries to achieve his goal in life to rid himself of his immortality no matter what it costs.

                        ***

"My life. My sanity. It was all a game at first. A stupid game. But then it ended so badly. He just fell down, face first and his body convulsed and thrashed so violently that I thought his limbs might tear off. And then She appeared. So beautiful, with skin as dark as coffee and eyes as light as amber. She was clothed in swaths of flowing black silk that clung delicately to her curvy frame. Her hair, as dark as coal, pulled back in an intricate long braid down to her waist. She was a vision of beauty. I longed to touch her. To reach out my hand and brush my fingers through her miles of gorgeous hair. I know it sounds cheesy and all but it was love at first sight and as I watched her elegant shape sashay towards the lifeless corpse of my former best friend, I knew that she was to be mine. She gently lifted the corpse. She seemed quite strong for a such a petite young thing. It was then that our eyes met and the world seemed to disappear around us. It was just me and her. Time froze, my other friends faded into grey images in the hazy background and all sound ceased. I knes that I was high but at this very moment, I began to see the world with such a precise clarity that it was almost like looking through my grandfather's advanced telescope which he 'acquired' from NASA. As our eyes connected, I felt a faint tug at my soul, if I have a soul. I was never very much into religion. The only time I ever prayed was right before a test that I never studied for or under the watchful eye of my super religious mother. She looked away, and suddenly vanished in a black mist. I came back to reality at a shattering speed, with everything in the room crashing down around me with an ears splitting bang. She was gone. I knew that I couldn't live with myself if I never saw her again. I had to see her again. No matter what."

                           ***

What is love?

Yep, we all know that dreaded word: Love. Them feels. Butterflies. Whatever you want to call it. Well, I guess maybe I'm the only one who calls it that...

Is it weird that, I don't believe that I'll ever meet somebody. I mean, I take a look at my 27-year-old cousin and he seems mildly attractive, yet he isn't married yet. Okay, yes he does have a girlfriend but it's still a scary thought. I mean, I always envisioned myself by the age of 30 married, with maybe one kid or a baby on the way. I envision myself with a handsome, loving, caring and somewhat goofy husband with a respectable job who will love me unequivocally. Isn't that what all women want?

As women, we are constantly comparing ourselves. Whether it's to our gorgeous best friend, or to a random acquaintance or celebrity. I suppose I just take it to the extreme, what with my dwindling self-confidence that shrinks whenever I look in the mirror. Perhaps my awful looks, my below-average personality, terrible laugh that resembles the mating call of a walrus and general awkwardness scares many men off.

What is love?

Well, love is that mushy sentimental feeling you get when you see that special someone and you get those annoying butterflies in your tummy that make you want to throw up rainbows. 

Or maybe it's that feeling you get when you rip open the plastic cover on a brand new video game, taking in the fresh yet musty stench of the plastic box and running your fingers across the bumpy cover and staring lustily at the cover picture?

                            ***

Maybe love is that weird feeling you get when you wake up all dreary-eyed and dazed in bed next to the sleeping body of your lover whom you probably don't recall ever crawling into bed with or ever offering a drink last night at that New Year's party of your old college buddy who you never really liked but decided to pitch up anyway cos he said that there'd be booze and old chums whom you haven't seem in a while?

Love is when she turns to you and smiles and tells you that she had a great night yet she doesn't remember your name but you look at her, I mean really look at her, and you realize that she isn't as beautiful as the alcohol made her seem, her voice isn't as pleasant as it was in your dreams and her touch isn't as sensuous as the alcohol made you believe...

Then she gets up and takes a shower in your shower. She comes out, naked, hair soaking wet and the stench of alcohol wafts through the air. You stare at her. She stares at you. 

"So...can I like, have a towel?"

"Over there, on the couch."

"Thanks."

She sashays over to the brown armchair and grabs your towel. You look at her. And then it hits you.

Love is when you look at her and she looks at you and at that very moment you realize that she's not the one for you. You stare at all her imperfections and realize that she's not the way that you envisioned your first time to be. She's hardly the woman that mother would want to meet and she's hardly the type to introduce to your mates but still there's something about her that just holds you down. And now, at this moment when you stare at her and realize all this then you know what love is.

Love is when you don't care what the other person's faults are, whether their stinky or if they aren't the most attractive person on the planet. You'll look at them as if they could do no wrong and they're virtually perfect even though they really aren't but you keep on believing that they're perfect anyway because you stutter and can't find the words to say about how much they mean to you or how much their very existence affects your own. 

But for me...I guess...

Love is that weird, mushy yet nice and soft feeling I get when I hear your name. The mere thought of you sends me cheesing. Sometimes you make me angry as hell and then I feel like ripping your throat out or cutting off your circulation, then spending the rest of my life searching the world for oxygen for you. Then I think about it and I mean Really think, and I realize that I would not be able to find oxygen perfect enough for you to breathe. 

                    - "Crazy, yet emo."