dear 2016,

somebody said you'd disappear in the crowd. i didn't understand then, i don't understand now. throughout your existence, time has been at the forefront of my mind. like, how long does it take for a contract to end, the time it takes to hear from a prospective employer, the number of weeks before a deadline, the hours it takes to write an essay, the number of days it takes to edit said essay, the minutes it takes to construct a text message, how long it takes for someone to read and respond(or not) to a text, how long before you unrattle my brain.

you weren't like rain, you were more like a sea. i wasn't prepared for the flood you'd cause. i floundered, 2016. i tried to swim my way through you. the havoc you've left behind will take a tremendous amount of self discipline and self care to repair because, 2016, i think of self care as warfare, and you've done quite a number on me.

i hated every new day that reminded me of what a failure i became under your watch. every time my white curtains announced a new day i felt like crying. but i didn't because you, 2016, are heartless like that. instead, my eyes became teary with each rise of the dawn. -if you have time(which you don't) i could tell you about the number of times i saw the start of a new day and the end of it, because, unlike normal people, i couldn't summon sleep whenever darkness came upon the sky. i was insomniac throughout your existence, 2016. while i thank you for this because i was able to finish my work before the deadline, i can't help but think of all those sunrises i missed because i fell asleep at six o'clock in the morning- there are times during the day when i decided not to wear my sunglasses just to know how it feels to cry. but just in case you didn't know, tears from sun sensitive eyes are different from tears from hurt filled eyes. you try to hide sun sensitive tears from the public that looks at you with pity, while tears from hurt filled eyes don't care who is looking.

2016, i thought you'd be painless. you weren't that at all. you did what you had to do. i guess it would be rude of me not to thank you for teaching me how to be patient, how to let go of the control i thought i had. so, i am ready to let go of you, but only with love, which, in all honesty, i found it hard to muster. while others dare you to get harder, i can't. i wouldn't. you've proved to me how hard you can get already. you couldn't possibly get harder. i've been a television version of a person with a broken heart. now i want to know how it feels to live a life without you around.

only with love,
the hedonist

this post was inspired by the national's pink rabbits.

I've Heard it Takes Some Time to Get it Right

There are nights, like tonight, when the moon is out, nights that fill me with inexplicable happiness. There are more important things that I could be doing, that I should be doing. Instead,  I am sitting by my window looking at the moon and its surrounding stars. Tonight is different though: I am asking myself questions; 'am I falling apart?' 'am I making a mess of things?' There is so much going on in my personal life, reasons for my absence from the blog. But right now, I feel like I can trust in the moon to lead me home (wherever that is). I also hope that I'll get home soon (whenever that is).

The title of this post is from the song Wasting My Young Years by London Grammar.

What you Want Can Become Something you Need

Sometimes all I really want to kick start my day is a huge bowl of fruit and a much craved cigarette. Other times it is a good beer buzz, classic rock and a book I can't stop reading--especially on Sunday mornings. And sometimes, all I want is to make an elaborate meal for myself (even though I must confess that I am very lazy and what is elaborate to me is a very simple meal to most people). But there are times, like now, when I have taken far too many shots of vodka and all I want to do is sit and read books that I will be embarrassed to say I have read and listen to the radio (because at this time there are no radio presenters and I can't control the playlist) till six in the morning. And in this alcohol induced state, I think this is really what I want. It is what I need. 

The title of this post is from the song Can We Work it Out by Gordi.

I Don't Want to Let You Down

It's been a while since I posted something here. But I don't have time for something long. I just had to say this: My favourite artist Sharon Van Etten has an EP out. Go check it out. It's called I Don't Want to Let You Down. My favourite singles so far are Tell Me and I Always Fall Apart

When There's Memory To Be Made

There is something about memory that I find fascinating. It is interesting how our minds filter things; losing certain aspects of occurrences while keeping others; altering those kept aspects and making us question if what we remember really happened.

I might have mentioned how I was in a road accident late last year. And this incident is, for the most part, out of my mind. Like I can't quite tell where exactly the accident took place, even though I have used that route numerous times since. What is interesting is that occassionally, I get vivid images of how everything went down: from the second I thought that we were in trouble to the point of impact to the subsequent overturning and the lingering screams. The first time this happened was a few weeks after the accident. I was on my way to town when my mind registered, somewhat belatedly, that the song playing on the matatu's radio was the same one that was playing on the day that I got into that accident. Traffic was moving slowly and I actually found it weird when the matatu I was in got into a fender bender with the vehicle in front. If I were a superstitious person, I would have thought that song was cursed. But alas, I am not. I just find that song a trigger. I can't tell you the title, because I don't know it. I also don't know the artist. But it is a ragga song. I keep on telling myself that I will look it up. But I haven't. And I think I owe it to myself to do it. But amidst all these,  there is a chance that maybe this song was not the one playing at the moment it happened. Another possibility is that I may not have heard of this song before. Maybe it never even played. I will never be sure of these details.

All these, I must say, is influenced by the song Neighbourhood #1 Tunnels by Arcade Fire that I have on repeat right now

 'Then, we try to name our baby
But we've forgot all the names that
 The names we used to know
But sometimes we remember our      bedrooms
 And our parent's bedrooms
 And the bedrooms of our friends
 And then we think of our parents
 Well, whatever happened to them?"

Memory. Choosing whatever it wants to remember.  Letting me know, in no uncertain terms, that I can't hurry it. Keeping things from me when I desperately need them. Choosing to ignore my pleas to point me in the right direction.

The title of this post is from the song The Only Ones Who Know by The Arctic Monkeys.

Get into My Ear: Cough Syrup by Young the Giant

I am about to break down. It's no longer a matter of if I'll break down, it's a matter of when I'll break down. It's annoying. Being on the verge of something and never really getting there and not knowing when you'll get there. Such is my life right now and the reason behind my absence from the blogosphere. So in an effort to find my footing again, I've been listening to Cough Syrup on repeat.

Favourite Lyrics

Life is too short to even care at all
I am losing my mind, losing my mind, losing control

If I could find a way to see this straight
I'd run away to some fortune that I, I should have found by now
And so I run to the things they said could restore me
Restore life the way it should be
I am waiting for this cough syrup to come down

Life is too short to even care at all
I coming up now, coming up now out of the blue
These zombies in the park they're looking for my heart
A dark world aches for a splash of the sun

***

I was walking in town earlier tonight when I decided to walk down a street that I haven't been in weeks now. I noticed (because Nairobi forces you to notice things) this kid running towards me. When the distance between us shortened, I sidestepped to let him pass, but he stopped and said, "How are you, beautiful? Si uniachie kakumi."

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.

How Can it be? I still Believe Something is Out There

Instead of sleeping:

I braid my hair. I file my nails. I try to edit a story I have been working on. I start working on another story. I think about doing research for work. I look at the night sky to see if I can see the moon from my bedroom window. I check if there is light in neighbouring apartment windows. I update my Goodreads 'currently reading'. I stand on the toilet seat to look at moving traffic. I switch on the light to admire my book shelf. I read one short story in a collection of short stories. I read an essay online. I read a book. I go check if I locked the front door. I start texting a friend and then remember it is 2:30 am so I stop myself. I practice how to conjugate words in German. I go to pee. I remember it's been about an hour before I had a cup of tea. I make one. I drink the tea while I listen to music. I Google Courtney Barnett. I read a poem. I think about what the poet was going through while writing the poem. I log in to tumblr.  I wonder if I should eat breakfast at 3:00 am. And then I can't keep my eyes open.

The title of this post is from the song Staying Up by The Neighbourhood.

I Will Take a Whisper If That's All You Had to Give

Are we still friends, you and I?

I think about all the friends I have lost to time and distance and responsibilities and I hope to God that time and distance and responsibilities will never be cruel to us, would have never been cruel to us. It is bad enough, as it is,  that we are no longer inhabiting the same world. Yesterday I passed by that school your niece and nephew (used to) go to and it occurred to me that I haven't seen them and your brother-in-law in a very long while. They don't know me, but I once saw them with your sister and that was when I made the connection. I couldn't say hi, I was quite a distance from them and I also didn't want to bring up memories,  but ever since then, I was drawn to them, your niece especially. So yesterday I thought about the reasons why I haven't seen them. It could be that it's because my morning routine has changed.

"This is how I lose people," I told myself as I walked my way through my day, "I forget to keep in touch with them, they forget to keep in touch with me and somewhere in the midst of not keeping in touch, life happens." But this loss feels particularly painful because, somehow in my own warped way, they were my connection to you. And that bond that I had created between them and myself, that bond that only I could see is getting weaker with everyday that passes without my seeing them. That is what time takes from us. I was reading a blog the other day about the various things that time takes from us and the writer had an elaborate list of all the things she had lost to time. Time took grief away from me. And I was glad because it was unbearable but at the same time I resented the fact that I could go whole days without thinking about you. Now I see glimpses of you in everyday things. Like I think about you when I tie a scarf around my hair (this is almost everyday). Or how sometimes when I have to wake up and switch on the lights because there is a sentence that I have to write down otherwise I will forget it. It's become a habit. I make sense of my world through words. I think about you in those instances. What would you be obsessed with? What are you obsessed with? Time, the passage of it, has always been an interesting concept. It is interesting to think how it has been eleven years, eleven fucking years and time hasn't stopped, won't stop. I am probably naive in thinking that eleven years wouldn't have changed us. Because eleven years have changed me in ways I never imagined eleven years capable of. Eleven years would have definitely changed you.

So, are we still friends?

The title of this post is from the song Echo by Jason Walker.

There is More Than One Answer to These Questions

On the eve of what was to be our date, this guy I was supposed to go out with called to ask where I wanted to go, what I wanted to do. He said that he had been thinking of creative ways that would make me happy and maybe he wasn't as creative as he thought he was because, as a last resort, he decided to ask me. Before I even answered, he justified his question by telling me that I read far too many books such that anything he came up with, I had already read about. He said that I am a difficult person to date, that I am a difficult person to love.
Spoiler alert: I didn't go out with him. And I stopped dating his kind.

I don't know why I remembered that incident. But I was readying myself for the day this morning when, for one fleeting second, I felt as if I couldn't recognise the person looking back at me on the mirror. This feeling passed as quickly as it came but it left a strange aftertaste in form of unanswered questions; like how does it feel to meet me? How does it feel to sit opposite me in a coffee shop and wait for my input in a conversation? Most importantly, how does it feel to be loved by me?

The title of this post is from the song Closer to Fine by Indigo Girls.

Get into my Ear: Trapdoor by Twenty One Pilots

I am currently reading three books: The Unknown Errors of our Lives by Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni; A Complicated Kindness by Miriam Toews;  and An Unquiet Mind by Kay Redfield Jamison. This last book, which is a memoir of moods and madness has inspired me to make a playlist of terribly depressing songs to go with it. So far, the playlist has 44 songs lasting about 3 hours. The dominant artists in this playlist are Blue October and Twenty One Pilots. If you are familiar with their music, you know that this combination is lethal and is the saddest you'll ever get (other than Gary Jules in Mad World where he says "I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad that dreams in which I am dying are the best I have ever had").

I find myself going back to Trapdoor every now and again. I don't know if I have already gushed about my love for Twenty One Pilots before. But I discovered them last year and what followed was me looking for everything they have ever done (including breathing). I am not depressed, and that's probably why it is hard for me to admit that this song touches something in my core. It makes me love life, and appreciate every life that is out there like the wasp that somehow got in the house this morning and it felt like it was following me around (totally random, I know).

Favourite Lyrics

Nobody knows his real name
But now he just uses one he saw on a grave

He thinks that faith might be dead
Nothing kills man faster than his own head
He used to see dreams at night
But now he is just watching the backs of his eyes

He pretends he is okay
But you should see
Him in bed late at night
He is petrified
Take me out, finish this waste of a life

Trapdoor- Twenty One Pilots

Dear 2015,

I am ashamed to say that I am not quite ready to let you go just yet. This, you must know after spending every minute of your time with me. I can confidently say that you know me intimately, the way no other person does. So you surely know that I never have a problem with letting go. But you, 2015, are proving difficult to let go. We are 14 days in to 2016, exactly two weeks since I said goodbye to you, and I should have let go. But you have a way of sneaking and creeping your way back into my mind and just when I least expect it, you show yourself. See, yesterday while I was going through my day, trying to get acquainted with 2016, which by now you must know is your replacement, I might have hurt my right forearm. I don't know how this happened, 2015. What I know is that I was in class and when I took my pen to jot something down in my notebook, I felt this pain, it wasn't a sharp pain nor was it the wonderful ache of having pulled a previously unused muscle. No, this was a dull throbbing ache. It was continuous that it made me aware of how I was using my right hand. Like how my fingers flew across my phone while typing a text, or how I gripped my toothbrush just before bed or how I had to use my left hand to hold my Kindle while reading in bed. And so in my journal entry, I tried to remember where and when I could have hit my arm, because surely, in the midst of the mundaneness that made my day, I must have. Could it be in the morning while I was taking a shower? Making my coffee? Lifting my bag full of books? Walking? During my commute and changing of busses? Needless to say, I couldn't figure it out. And this brought me to the sudden realisation that I need to be present. I need to be able to let you go and be aware of my ordinary everyday existence, because otherwise, I will kill my ability to be always present. And you know that I like being present.

But 2015, I don't know what it is about you that makes it hard to let go. Other than my graduation in December and that time I had a near death experience in October, nothing about you stands out in my mind. I have to think really hard to come up with the memories that you and I shared. That you and I made. And yet the calender in my bedroom stopped at September. I stopped turning the page with every new month after that as if turning the pages would prevent time from going on. In October, you might recall that my red watch stopped working. And in what I can only call a mysterious turn of events, just before your inevitable ending, 2015, my brown leather watch stopped at 10 minutes to two. If were a superstitious person -which both of us know I am not (I called myself level headed, sometime in our relationship and you seemed to agree) I could have said that this was a sign. But alas, all things must end, despite you prolonging our eventual parting by introducing me to the Strokes' The End has no End which I loved and still do.

But 2015, this clinging to each other is not healthy. Perhaps in my own warped way I thought that by my clinging to you, you could redeem yourself, just like you did at the beginning when I told you that I didn't like odd numbers and you told me you were special because you were smack in the middle of the decade. That somehow I could remember something exceptionally spectacular that you did in the future. You perfomed poorly, 2015. And, despite us having quiet late date nights reading and drinking tea-infused vodka (I'll remember those nights with fondness, even when I am already doing the same with 2016) you and I must part. So, to quote The Indigo Girls, "Time has made history of us." This, 2015, is goodbye. Here's to a future nodding acquaintanceship

Yours, with love,
Lina

You Must Rely on Love Once in a While to Give you Reason

Black coffee first thing in the morning. Cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. Diet Coke. Vintage coffee mugs. Fancy tea. Peeing. The illusion of a flat stomach after pooping. Pooping. Long cold showers. Scented lotion. Perfumes. Nail polish. Natural hair. Washing my hair. Scented candles. Old books. Bookshelves. Short stories. Notebooks. My Kindle Paperwhite.  Reading poems in the middle of the night. Women writers. Prose. Susan Sontag. bell hooks. Sad music. Discovering new music artists. Looking at the sky at night. New moon. The sun between 7 and 10 in the morning. Long walks in the morning sun. The breeze from the open kitchen window. Walking in the rain. Making my own breakfast. Eating said breakfast. Freshly squeezed orange juice. All types of salads. Sandwiches. Vegan dishes. Omelette. Tattoos. Button down shirts. Vintage leather satchels. Yoga. Single people. Morning people. Other people's morning routines. Lone lights from apartment windows late at night. The distant sound of traffic in  the wee hours of the night. Taillights of moving vehicles at night. Unmade beds. Clean sheets. Studio apartments. Houseplants. The aftertaste of cigarettes. Chugging vodka from the bottle. The sweet burn of vodka down my throat. Skulls. Owls. Fresh flowers. Dark skinned women. Brightly coloured shoes. Jeans that fit like a dream.

These are a few things that make me happy.

The title of this post is from the song Shock to Your System by Tegan and Sara.

Sundays' 3 O'clock

There is a certain unexplainable calmness that Sundays' 3 o'clock bring with them. It is the silence that I realise has been there for quite some time after the faithful church goers who congregate at the church behind my bedroom have gone home. It is the sound of music softly playing because, somehow, Sundays always seem so dismal and therefore call for soft music, if at all. It is realising, quite suddenly, that my eyes are glazing over whatever reading material that I have after a morning of cup after cup of coffee and reading. It is in reveling in the nostalgia of Sundays past and (sort of evaluation(?) of how far I've come) wondering if my former self on one of those past Sundays at 3 O'clock ever imagined that this is how I would be spending my Sunday. It is in indulging in heavy daydreams of all the places I want to visit, of all the things I want to do while there. It is in realising that there are no guarantees in ever satisfying my wanderlust even after visiting these places, as past experience has been kind enough to point out. It is in acknowledging this fact but at the same time giving my mind free reign to wander, to explore and to dream. It is at 3 O'clock on Sundays that I reconcile with this incomprehensible fact that I'll never be content, that no matter how many items I cross from my bucket list, I may never achieve that elusive zen, that I will always be seeking something, that I may never have it all. And that, surprisingly, is okay.

Oh, but how I love 3 O'clock on Sunday!