Once Upon a Year Gone By

Oh 2014, I hardly knew you! Only one day to the very end of this year and I am just now tasting the shocking realisation that it has, in fact, been 12 months since the beginning of the year. It's been a blur. The 365 days have drifted by without my conscious awareness of their passing. I took the idea that the concept of time is man's creation quite literally. The distinction between night and day to me was not black and white, it was (still is) grey. I ate supper at midnight, I took vodka -sometimes- at two in the afternoon, I drank coffee at eight in the evening and eight in the morning became my ungodly hour. Time, after all, was my conception -the conception of my ancestors and, therefore, mine. And like the Idiosyncratic Hedonist that I am, I didn't follow the norm. It is no surprise then that 12 solid months have gone by and I feel that the year has just flown by.

It is not uncommon to look back at the years past and talk about something significant that happened in a particular year, for instance: school graduation; meeting a stranger who later becomes a lover; breaking up with the aforementioned lover; going through grief; moving out of the parents' home; starting a new job; these are just some of the major life events. I don't think I'll look back at 2014 and mention any of the above. However, I feel like I did grow tremendously in a short period of time and this growth has gone unnoticed by everyone but myself. I feel like in the space of 12 months, I have traversed so far from what I am used to. I find it difficult to put into words these bits and pieces of transition and transformation. The peace that I have felt, the wanderings -both imaginary and physical, getting lost and subsequently finding myself in a good book, being moved by great music, the magic of the night air, the stillness of the morning just before everyone wakes up, the letting go on my yoga mat, the sound of silence, the surprising emotional balance. These are things I might not be able to tell people in future, yet it is their combination that makes me feel completely and utterly metamorphosed. The abstractness of their very nature makes them difficult to explain.

Oh 2014, I hardly knew you, yet you gave me the time to know myself, and for that I am grateful.

The title of this post is from the song Paradise by Vanessa Carlton

What Kind of Paradise am I Looking For?

It's five o'clock on Monday morning and I am back at my place by the window with my first cup of coffee. I know, (because I have been told) that sounds depressing. I am not depressed. I am melancholic: I love sad things. Those of us with the melancholic disposition are inspired by misery. This is not to say I am a sad person. Quite the contrary, I am a happy soul. So, instead of sleeping, especially since I seldom get a full night's sleep -my sleep comes fitfully, with me dipping in and out of consciousness throughout the night- I find that staring out of the window is an interesting alternative, a better alternative so to speak. In this pre-dawn darkness, I find a solitary kind of happiness. I feel an illusion of aloneness, and despite knowing it is an illusion, or maybe because I know it is an illusion, I embrace the peace that can only be found when alone. I am staring into the proverbial nothingness, my mind's eye trying to form images the way I know them and with others, giving my imagination free rein as I form them the way I'd like them to be. But all too soon, in the light of day, I see everything the way it usually is.

I am a voracious reader. I devour books with a kind of hunger that I am certain can't and will never be satisfied. My Kindle, my laptop, my phone, my physical book shelves are all filled with books because the thought of ever lacking something to read scares me shitless. I spend more time reading than I do any other activity. It is in books that I make friends, travel around the world and acquire immense knowledge which translates to happiness. Every new book shifts my horizon. I find truths in books, especially fiction, because fiction is likely to contain more truth than fact. Books are my anchor: I read when I am happy; I read when I am sad. I read to experience everything across the full gamut of emotions. I feel emotions that I may probably never feel in real life; I become  someone I would never have become without books, and the best part is that I get to change the person that I am with every new book that I read. Someone once said, I forget who, but I agree with this fellow bookish soul, that my library is an archive of longings.

I am a dreamer. While pondering about dreams, Sile, one of the protagonists in Emma Donoghue's Landing, says that dreams pull so unpredictably on the fabric of time. She goes ahead to demystify the default, widespread yet misleading assumption that daytime is the real life. "In the night," she says, "people journeyed far from those they slept beside, they lived out infinitudes of time and in the morning,  they all behaved like adulterers, as if nothing happened." And I tend to agree. I have experienced so much in my dreams. I have been chased by indescribable creatures, I have traveled the world, I have interacted with people I might never meet in my life, I have attended international conferences, I have lived in my own house, I have experienced my worst fears, I have endured terrible pain and I have achieved my dreams. This other life that I have lived -sometimes stretching a whole lifetime and sometimes the brevity of it all makes me second guess myself- is only known to me. I might never experience all these things in my real life (whatever real life means) but I have felt them so strongly, it's as if  I have lived them. Fernando Pessoa says that life is fundamentally a mental state, and all that we do or think valid to the extent we consider it valid, the valuation depends on us. I find immense comfort in that thought.

In all these: sitting alone and staring in the dark; reading an inordinate number of books; and dreaming (living in my head) I believe I am looking for a paradise that is inevitably and eerily elusive. While on this other side of paradise -the preparadise- I try my best to conjure the image, to paint the picture of my paradise. I have imagined my paradise, made both minor and major changes and then done away with it. I am back at the drawing board, unsure of what kind of paradise I am looking for.

The title of this post is from the song Grey by Ani DiFranco.

Who am I to Dream?

I am at that point in my life where I am about to finally (gasp) step into the other side of the future. The future, up until now, meant after graduation. I am now in my second to last semester of school and my mind tells me that I need a new perspective of what the future would mean because I can almost taste what was my future. Like most people, I have dreams -probably because dreams give me a reason to look forward to the future; but could also be because I want people to see that I take my life seriously, I mean, everywhere I look I am surrounded by motivational speakers and books which tell me to dream big and this will propel me to a life of purpose(!)

When I was in standard seven, during a routine check from the Ministry of Education, the officer was fascinated by how lively our science class was. So at the end of the class, he decided to give us 'a word of encouragement.' He launched to the very unoriginal speech of how we as young kids were capable of everything we set our minds to and how we were the leaders of tomorrow. At that, he asked us who would like to be the president of Kenya. Out of the 46 of us, no one raised their hand, to his utter disappointment. He looked at us incredulously and repeated the question, and again to his disappointment, no one raised their hand. Later on that day, our class teacher came to talk to us about how disappointed she was that no one in class wanted to be the president. I mentally rolled my eyes as she continued with her monologue of how we should dream big, see ourselves as leading the country, and how it would bring her great pleasure to be a former teacher of a future president.

That little incident has always been at the back of my mind throughout the years I have been growing, changing and redesigning my dreams. I like listening to other people talk about their dreams. To gauge if they are passionate about the life they envision, and to predict the possibility of the realization of these dreams with regards to their life right now and their level of enthusiasm about the said dream. I think the line between dreams and fantasies is very thin and faint, unnoticeable to the people who don't look carefully. Fantasies are great, and in unguarded moments, I like to indulge. Dreams on the other hand require me to be realistic. But again, in moments of despair, I wonder if James Morrison was right in the song from which this post gets its title from when he said that dreams are for fools, they let you down. In these desperate moments, I don't see a bleak future. Rather, I see myself building walls around me that would withstand any amount of disappointment. In short, I prepare for when life's sometimes grim realities finally catch up with my perfect dreams. By preparing, I mean discarding my dreams for a little while because we know that's the safest way to avoid disappointment.

So, back to my present situation, even with the knowledge that some dreams don't come true, I can't help it. I am a hopeless dreamer. I am about to enter what people call the real world, whatever that may mean. My thoughts lately revolve around which companies I should send my CV to and what is like to plan my life outside of years characterised by semesters. I am anxious to enter this world, with equal part zeal and equal part fear. I feel ready to face this changes, but then who will I be after a lifetime of being a student? This feels like a point of transition, where my dreams should shift to reflect the person I am becoming. But I don't know that person (yet).

The title of this post is from the song Wonderful World by James Morrison.

The Moon Don't Hang Quite as High as it Used to

I saw the moon last night. That I am sure. Why, I had the lyrics ''She swears the moon don't hang quite as high as it used to'' from Matchbox Twenty's 3 am on my mind the whole night yesterday and the whole day today. So I am sitting by the window to look at the moon only that I can't see it. As I sit here, I remember the book The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros. In explaining her name, Esperanza says that she was named after her great grandmother. She, like her great grandmother was born in the Chinese year of the horse. This is apparently bad luck if you are female, because the females born in the year of the horse are strong. And in both the Chinese and Mexican cultures, strong women are not encouraged. Esperanza, the great grandmother, was a wild horse woman who wouldn't marry until a sack was thrown over her head by the great grandfather and was carried away. She did not forgive him and for the rest of her life, she looked out the window. Esperanza compares her great grandmother's looking out the window to how many women sit their sadness on an elbow. Esperanza is fine with inheriting her great grandmother's name but she doesn't want to inherit her place by the window.

I shudder just by thinking about the book. Because I am looking out the window just like, I am assuming, Esperanza did. I guess looking out the window at this other side of midnight is a little sad and lonely. That thought is a little bit disquieting, so I ask myself, what really is it that I am looking for. I tell myself that the wanting to see the moon is just an excuse my conscious self wants to believe and my subconscious is hiding the real reason. So I stare. The wind is blowing softly. This, I deduce from the fact that I see the leaves moving slowly, back and forth, back and forth, then a little more violently, then back to its slow rhythm. It's fascinating. It is quiet. Deathly quiet. I like it.

Esperanza may have been looking out the window hating how her life turned out. But I am looking out the window finding peace in my aloneness thinking I should sit here daily instead of every other day and knowing that beyond the horizon, beyond this tiny spot on the globe, the sun is rising.

The title of this post is from the song 3 AM by Matchbox Twenty.

Get into my Ear: Just Another Girl by The Killers

The Killers - Just Another Girl: http://youtu.be/3BwzP1laWkQ

If you know me, at all, you'll know that matters of the heart are not my forte. I fundamentally believe that you can get through this life without being romantically involved with anyone. I mean, if you doubt me, ask the monks and the Catholic Sisters, Brothers and Fathers. If you happen to fall in love,  well and good. If you don't, it's not the end of the world. I have been, or thought I was at the time, in love. But with the benefit of hindsight right now, I think I never was.

Given my take, it is therefore unusual, absurd even, to have this song on repeat. I tell myself it's because I find every song by The Killers, and Brandon Flowers while we are at it, very entertaining. The Killers would most certainly have a place in my mix tape, if I ever make one. Or maybe it's because the video features Dianna Agron, who looks amazing by the way. Whatever the reason, I have this song on repeat. So why waste time psychoanalysing myself and the absurd reasons behind why I love it. Why not share with the world? I know it sounds pathetic to hold on to the past, but this song gives the past a whole new meaning.

Favourite Lyrics

I could be reeling them in left and right
Something's got a hold on me tonight
Well maybe all of my friends should confront
The fact that I don't want another girl

Then why can't I sleep at night
And why don't the moon look right
The sound's off but the TV's on
And it's a great big world

All of my friends say I should move on
She's just another girl
Don't let it stick to your heart so hard
All of my friends say it wasn't meant to be
And it's a great big world
She is just another girl

The Light Outside the Darkness

I am in the mood of sitting by my bedroom window and watch the stars, see if I can make out the different constellations. But the sky is overcast, making it appear gloomy, so I sit staring into the vast darkness. In the distance, I see light from a second floor window of an apartment, and for no apparent reason, my heart goes out to the occupant(s). Out of this darkness, the light stands out as if trying to get attention, which it does. It's past midnight on a weeknight, so I wonder what the occupant is doing, they should be asleep. I chuckle at the hypocrisy of that thought, because I am awake. Then I feel angry at the occupant, for having their light on and marring the beauty of the night. More surprisingly, am angry that they are awake, therefore, am not the only one who isn't asleep.

I wonder why I have this anger but then I realise that the nights are private. The silence, the solitude and the darkness are things that I enjoy most about the night and I suddenly feel that my privacy is being violated by this person whom I think is studying or working or maybe even sleeping with the lights on. I am irked by this light -however distant it is from me. So I leave my spot by the window and wonder why I am even thinking about these things in the first place!

The title of this post is from the song Kill the Light by Lacuna Coil

When you Find yourself a Villain in the Story you've Written

On this fine, cold and unusual insomniac night, I sit looking at my phone waiting for the battery to charge because tomorrow might be long and I don't want to lose the convenience that my cell affords me. Tonight is unusual because whenever am insomniac(read most nights) I enjoy the silence that comes with the night, in fact, I find that I crave it. Silence in the dead of the night creates an illusion  of aloneness that is hard to find during the day and that is very comforting for my introverted tendencies.  Okay, granted, most nights I am reading and therefore meeting new people as it is. Tonight, however, the silence is both deafening and suffocating. So I have put some music on so I can finally breath.

My thoughts wander haphazardly,  as if seeking for something but never pausing long enough to explore what it is they are searching. I tell myself that after the day I have had, I should be damn tired, near exhaustion, but my mind contradicts this idea. That's why, in an effort to quiet the cacophony that is my thoughts, I try to put to paper what it is that I think I am feeling. I try so hard to show you my favourite part of me, because that's what us humans do, but I feel like a villain in this story that I have written, and it is safe to say that no one ever wants to be the villain, we want to be good people, we endeavour to be nice but sometimes we fail horribly in our attempts. Truth is, sometimes I am a heartless villain who unknowingly (and sometimes knowingly) hurts the people around me.

Sometimes I am unforgiving and therefore let meaningful relationships die because of things that could easily be forgotten. I pride myself in being very observant, taking note of things my friends do and most importantly listening intently to them during conversations. But when my being observant is not reciprocated and I find myself talking about the same things that I am sure I had already talked about to the same person, I get angry and let the friendship wither all so naturally.

I don't have friends. But I have a myriad of acquaintances. This was rightly pointed out by an acquaintance whom I have known for quite some time now. I was studying for my Communication and Gender paper and I read to her the steps of building a friendship and one of the key steps is mutual sharing of vital information about each other. She said that I am a good listener, and people easily share personal information and not even realise that I have not shared anything personal. She then confessed that she wanted to buy me a present on my birthday, but she was conflicted, she didn't know if I would like whatever it is she bought. And she is not the only one, so many people, some of my siblings included don't know even my favourite food(!) But instead of thinking that maybe am too secretive or mysterious, I felt a surge of anger, because I thought that people don't outrightly tell you what they like, it's your job to find out, by being observant, and I do that job so well. But she sensed my anger and calmly said that I am picky, too picky for that matter.

So I am unforgiving, very picky and mysterious, all traits that don't nurture good friendships. In this story that is my life, I am responsible for these villain traits. I picked these traits for my protagonist, who is me, and for as long as this story has been in existence, these traits have served me well. They have put an electric barrier between myself and other people, thereby protecting my vulnerabilities and in so doing, creating a cocoon that is my safety net without which I wouldn't recognise myself.

The title of this post is from the song You are a Tourist by Death Cab for Cutie.