Memories

When I was in class five, my composition and English Grammar notebooks all had red circles on the word interesting. I always wrote it as 'intresting'. One morning, (English lessons were always in the morning, I don't know why) the teacher was dictating words as we wrote them down. These were the words we would find in the story that would open a new chapter in the Primary English text book. One of the words we  were to write down was the word interesting. After saying this word the teacher continued, "Mijide, you are another one! I hope you get the spelling of 'interesting' right otherwise I will punish you."
I did get the spelling right and escaped punishment but this incident sort of started a life long sort of watchfulness every time I write down the noun interest and the various different ways it can be used as an adjective.

This, I just realised, was (gasp!!) 14 years ago. But I have been liking the German adjective interessant and loving it even more because one has to pronounce every letter.

When You're Dreaming With A Broken Heart, The Waking Up is The Hardest Part

Sometimes waking up is hard. This is especially so when you fall asleep with a broken heart. And even more so if you are responsible for breaking your own heart. Sometimes your hopes and expectations start out together, and somewhere in an unknown and unforeseeable future, they take separate and completely different turns and before you realise this error, both are too far gone in their journeys. The process of looking for the expectations you had and the hopes you lost becomes a tiring one and yet so dire but going back becomes and remains your only option. Your poor little heart sometimes can't take it. And it breaks a little with every backward step you take.

Breaking your own heart, especially when you knew better is hard to bear. And it's harder when you keep letting yourself down. People will tell you to forgive yourself. But that's easy. What's hard is watching your heart break, again and again, and you trying to mend it every time it does. Sometimes you do a damn good job but it still breaks. Then there is the pain that comes with the mending. You'll wake up after trying to numb your pain with sleep, sleep that was so fitful in its taking of you that you are aware of your pain all along. Sometimes what you think is a nightmare is your reality. But nightmares are still dreams.

This is what I know: sometimes the meeting of our childhood dreams and our adult realities is a grim one. A meeting that has the power to awaken us into a very harsh reality.

There are times you'll want to swallow the sun especially on those days when waking up is hard. The sun will mock you with its brightness and betray your mood with its persistence and instead of cheering you up it only succeeds in burning all the energy you had in you. These are the times when your skin feels foreign; so tight that you feel the tension building inside you and yet so slack as if you are melting. But you have to keep reminding yourself to breathe.

The title of this post is from the song Dreaming With a Broken Heart by John Mayer.

Open Mind For a Different View

On very good days (which, let's face it are rare and far between) I will feel like the planets have finally aligned. These are the days when I get this intensive compulsive desire to touch that cat I see roaming around; these are the days that I will not complain about the weather; these are the days that I don't see all the things that stress me, that or I choose not to dwell on them. Like today. I was reading an article on The Rumpus this morning and for every article the writer linked to in the article, I realised that I had already read those articles some time back. And for the authors she mentioned, I had read a book and/or numerous articles they've written and even subscribed to their podcasts. I see how this may be seen as an obsession on my part. But I don't see it that way. This, dear reader, is HUGE for me. Like totally up there on the list of things that make me happy. See, I woke up one day and realised how very little I knew about the world. What followed then was a desire to read the world, a desire so dire it made me tremble. I became desperate to make sense of the world outside of the bubble that I live in, to want to listen to other people's realities, people who I don't meet in my day to day reality. But with the scramble to try to read, I had to face and accept this reality: unless I become immortal, I will never read everything that has been published and continues to be published. There are so many stories out there just waiting to be told -including mine. This world is layered in stories and I want to unravel them, layer after complex layer. So to find an article that has all the articles I have read seems like a step in the right direction. But it also means I should continue to intentionally and consciously diversify my reading.

The title of this post is from the song Nothing Else Matters by Metallica.

This February Night Sky

On this February night, the sky is scattered with cumulus clouds. I can see stars. Then I am distracted by the lights that suddenly come on in a nearby apartment window. I can see a shadow moving inside and I wonder if that is the bedroom or the kitchen. And then, just as quickly as the lights came on, they go off. I go back to gazing at the sky. And the little accumulation of clouds that made the sky look as if it were covered in sheep's wool is now almost gone and what is left is little patches of wool, the skin being mostly visible as if the farmer did a shoddy job in removing the wool; or the wool fell off the sheep naturally, unpredictably. I don't know where this thought comes from, but I also think that the sky looks like a head shaved by a razor blade. And soon enough, the clouds fade into nothingness and what remains is a sky scattered with stars.

Sometimes I Sit and Think, And Sometimes I Just Sit

You guys, Courtney Barnett is bae!

Listening to her music is like meeting a potential friend and for every new thought, for every piece of information you exchange in the process of learning about each other, you punctuate these thoughts with, 'you too? I thought I was the only one.' There is something mystical, almost ethereal, about meeting someone you have the same thoughts,  the same feelings.

Listening to Courtney Barnett is like having a conversation with Mindy Kaling or Tina Fey or Amy Poehler. In fact, the song Nobody Really Cares If You Don't Go To The Party reminds me so much of Mindy Kaling's Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me (And Other Concerns). It is like finally understanding that you are going through a quarter life crisis and then decide to take each new day as it comes, however it chooses to show itself.

Listening to Courtney Barnett is like repeating your affirmation, 'I am not weird. I am not weird,' until you believe that but still continue to repeat just in case you forget.

Listening to Courtney Barnett is life!

Two of my favourites from this album:
An Illustration of Loneliness (Sleepless in New York); and
Nobody Really Cares If You Don't Go To The Party.