Original Photo by kiryl on Unsplash

The world was interrupted by a fire.

A taste difficult on the stomach.

Then, she was submerged in a rain,

that turned into a raging torrent.

The storm made little droplets,

That coated orange rose petals.

Some raindrops, the remnants,

Made their home on windshields.

A patter, then a trickle down.

It trickled reluctantly against walnut painted cheeks,

Of a woman blinking too hard,

As she retreated to a series of warm embraces.

A patter, then a trickle down,

From a person to a stream of people,

Making their way to a puddle of seats.

Waiting,

Then moving again,

To the calling of their names.

“Congratulations” said,

as both a demand and a suggestion.

Acrylic tipped fingers,

shifted a black and gold tassel,

from right to left.

The world was interrupted by a fire,

And then she rained.

Waiting, then it happened all at once.

If you don’t know already, I have an issue with keeping too many things. I talked about this habit at nauseum, with a level of vulnerability that left me with a sense of disgust that bubbled out of fear that people would judge, then relief because I realized that only a few people saw my post! And I was the only person to interact with it! I guess being seen and perceived is another fear to unravel privately, within the gentle confines of my actual journal. But not today– nope, not today! Because I actually took my own advice about facing some of my own fears, and started clearing out some of my things in the garage, or what my parents call “The Office”.

As you might already be able to tell, things in this household are done a bit authoritatively, especially when it comes to matters of the space itself. So much so that I get very hesitant to call it my home. In all honesty, it feels like I’m in a liminal place, a stop before going on to the next destination. But how could that be so… I have all my stuff here. Papers and books and trinkets that I loved and love so much that I want my skin to engulf it all. Then my body would become an exhibition of miscellaneous things that nobody would be able to see because my skin, that greedy little cell, ate them all up. Unfortunately, nobody is able to do that, and I don’t think our bodies would ever reach that point in evolution in which we will be able to do such things. I guess there might be plastics in our body already from all the stuff we consume and inhale on a daily basis.

But back to the topic. Since my skin can’t eat my things, I thought the next best thing would just be to keep them safe and sound in the house. That pretty much has changed since the demands to pave the way for the creation of “The Office” began, another idea that seems only realistic in scattered fragments.

Scattered fragmented ideas that seemed to seep out of minds like running faucet water, trickling through thinly layered off–white walls and loosened wooden floorboards. The water bounced off the hidden circuits that ran along the thermostat system, causing the stream to frazzle and zigzag through the windows. It made this world, which was already so small, jagged and unstable to the touch. The papers, trinkets, books–things I once loved– have become conduits to this liquid current, making them hurt to the touch. It became more painful to embrace them as the days lulled on by.

So you see, the fanciful creation of “The Office” was just what I needed. To walk downstairs, and see my trinkets, books, and papers. To go through them all to see which ones were my anchors, and which ones I needed just a bit longer.

….

Part of the reason why we like to hold on to objects that don’t have any direct utility lies between lines of memory, love, loss, and self. Ruth Ozeki explores this idea in her novel The Book of Form and Emptiness. The book narrates the story of a young boy, Benjamin (or Benny) Oh, as he navigates and grieves the loss of his Father. I mean this literally. The book actually narrates because the book is a character in the story (how meta is that?). We also get to follow the story of Benny’s mother, Annabelle, as she grapples with the loss of her husband while navigating her relationship with her son.

This book was kind of an unexpected pick for me. I attempted to read Ozeki’s A Tale for the Time Being a couple years ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to become immersed in the story. After about 70 something pages (I really tried y’all), I placed the book down. I told myself that I would not be touching her books any time soon.

So, how did I pick up another book by this author, you may ask? Well… it’s because I was in the O section of the library. I like reading books written by Nigerian authors (guess my nationality), and books by Nigerian authors in my favorite cozy library seem to be concentrated in the A and O sections. This piece of information is so ingrained in my mind that my legs march towards those areas, as if by instinct.

One afternoon, at the dawn of summer, I found it while practicing this peculiar ritual. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a bright red book. It was placed at the end of a book row, resting against a wire easel stand. Maybe it was the highlight of the month, or maybe it was pedestalized at the whims of one of the staff members.

Regardless of how it got there…it was there. The title burst through the front pages, their overlays decorated with both words and constellations. I tried making sense of them, but I could only decipher the word overlay around the E.M.P of Emptiness (it was about Hansel and Gretel). I skimmed the blurb and flipped to the page. I usually can tell if I would like a book from the first few chapters, so I decided to give it about an hour to convince myself.

It only took a second. That was all it took to fall in love. Then I slowed down before halting my progress completely.

A series of changes happened to me that made it difficult for me to come back to the book. Six months later, I picked it up to read on a winter’s evening. Then, at one point in the story, I found myself in tears. It might have not been what I wanted, but it was something I needed to read at that very moment.

There are some stories that entertain and some that educate. And there are a rare few that really change you– shift something in your own emotional core. It expands from there, like paint running through a canvas. By the time you are done, the paint has already dried against the surface of your world, transforming it in ways that only you know. When I own my library room, I’d like to place this book there. Cushioned between Os and Ps, and just let be. I’ll let it stay warm until the moments I need to pick it up. And once I re-begin reading, the words would take me to a world strung with constellations.

…

An aspect of this book that I deeply enjoyed was the role that objects played in the story. From books to spoons, the objects in this seemed to take a life of their own. Ozeki attempts to explore themes of consumption, materialism, and the role objects play in one’s life throughout the book. While there is so much to be said about the ideas posed in the story, I will focus on the relationship between objects and love.

Before we begin to explore this idea, I would like to give you some context, in the best way I can. We can see the ways in which our main characters attempt to reconcile their relationship with objects over the course of the story. While Benny begins to hear voices coming from them, Annabelle develops a hoarding habit in response to her husband passing. This habit, along with both characters’ mental health, takes a strain on their relationship to each other and their emotional wellbeing.

Annabelle had been in a state of helplessness, at least until she picked up a book titled Tidy Magic. Now, just to be clear, reading this book didn’t make Annabelle suddenly forget about her grief. Grief lingers–it always does. But this book gave Annabelle the strength to navigate her life through that pain, because after this the moment does she begin her attempts at clearing up the house.

One of the chapters that influenced Annabelle’s perceptions of her own things is titled Tidying is Love. This passage in an odd way, changed my own perception of cleaning as well. Isn’t that funny. A book that a character is reading about in a book changed my own perception about a theme explored in the book. How would I even describe that? I imagine the conversation to go like this:

Random Person: Hey what’s up!

Me: Hey Random Person! How are you doing?

<Small talk, small talk, small talk>

Random Person: So what have you been reading so far?

Me: I actually just finished The Book of Form and Emptiness by Ruth Ozeki

Random Person: Why did you say it like that?

Me: Huh? What do you mean?

Random Person: Yeah, what you just said just now.

Me: What do you mean?

Random Person: ...What?

Me: I just asked what do you mean? Is that it?

Random Person: No…what you said before that. About the book.

Me: I mean…I just said that I liked The Book of Form and Emptiness by Ruth Ozeki

Random Person: Yeah, when you said the name of the book like that!

Me: Like what, The Book of Form and Empti—

Random Person: Stop that!

Me: Okay…alright. But I really like the book. You should read it.

Random Person: Oh okay, I’ll add it to my list! What do you like about it?

Me: Just so many themes you know, about life, grief, and possessions…and like there’s another book within the book that is so impactful as well. Like, that book taught me that tidying is deeper than you think. Like you know, tidying is not just what you do to keep a space clean, but it’s like the doing that matters. And then it’s like a form of love. But it also talks about capitalism and consumerism–like both the book in the book and the actual book. But it’s like your own interpretation that matters. It’s all about love you know?

Random Person: No…I’m confused.

Me: I know, me too…

< We end the conversation here>

That silly hypothetical scenario aside, that chapter was deeply insightful, and I think it’s so impactful simply because of the way the author describes cleaning, and in a broader sense, the process of doing:

Doing connects me to this moment, this weed, this patch of moss. This moment is real life. I am not separate from this moment, or from the floorboards, or the trees, or the monks. Or the weeds. And then the weeds grow back, and that’s okay too…Cleaning is an act of compassion, Weeding is a practice of faith. Tidying is love!

- Ruth Ozeki, A Book of Form and Emptiness

Cleaning is an act of love, only if you connect yourself to the moment, instead of the results. When I think about cleaning, I think about rugged floors ruffled by the bristled broom I used. I think about polished shelves and scarce desks. I think about all the things I’ve lost, the empty space where all my things were supposed to be.

Even though my feelings might be a bit extreme, I’d like to think that my reasons are understandable. We all have some things we like to treasure, things that we absolutely cannot let go of. Or at least I do, as you can already tell. I believe that having things of the past helps bolster the practice of remembrance. I like looking through old things, and I love keeping things “just in case” I need to look through them. Just in case I need to prove my love for them.

But at some points, you have to call it quits. If everyone has a reason for existing, everything also has a reason for being. Our possessions– our clothes, our bags, our books, and other miscellaneous things have a purpose beyond being stuffed in a drawer or piled across a shelf. Sometimes, the act of cleaning, letting things go, is truly the best way you can show that you loved them at all.

So, I decided to engross myself in the active act of letting go. I told myself that I will finally throw them all out myself. Thank them before I place them in sleek garbage bags. I’ll thank them before I let them go.

….

And I did just so, just around a week ago. I brought out heaps of papers that I stowed away–doodles and notes and papers from high school. Business cards and job fair flyers from my college days. Notebooks upon notebooks.

I sifted through them, examining which ones need to go, and which ones will stay for a while longer. Most of my papers from high school: trigonometry tests, periodic tables, French notes and the rest. They all had to go. I ran them through the shredder, then ripped them with my hands after the machine’s surface turned warm.

Books were stowed into a brown hanging book shelf– books I would give away after a read. Notebooks, worn out art supplies, and trinkets were flung into the trash bag. The survivors were stacked neatly against the metal shelves.

This three day exercise of cleaning did not just allow me to let go of what I didn’t need, but also allowed me to remember.

I remembered that I was pretty good at trigonometry. I couldn’t say the same for French, given my mixed grades. But one thing I could say is that I was dedicated– the mountain of notes from my high school and my college self stood as a testament to this. And while I lost sight of myself sometimes, my younger self recognized my value in my work, to an extent.

My younger self also expressed her passions quite brazenly, as seen in the papers I kept. Most of them were written for my English classes. I read through almost every English essay and note. The first one I spotted was a letter we were meant to write to someone from a university back in the ninth grade.

It was the first homework I got in English class, and since English was my first period class, that marked the first homework I got in the U.S. too. I wrote about how I was a hard worker, and that I was considering majoring in literature and the arts, but I’m still exploring. I ended the letter by talking about how my hard work will speak for itself more than talent ever will (or something along that lines). It’s funny, writing about literature and the arts then.

Then I continued on, reading through all the messy stories and essays I wrote. An essay about Montag and Faber from Fahrenheit 451. A short dystopian story inspired by the story of Joseph and his brothers (guess which religion I was raised in? The answer is closer than you might think). A short piece that feels too intimate to publish here.

I monitored my progress as I looked through pages of assignments. The children’s story I wrote in tenth grade. The booklet my tenth grade English teacher gave me for Life of Pi. The many short essays I did for my AP English class for grade eleven.

I noticed the absence of notes from the twelfth grade. Was that a quiet transition to using canvas completely? Or maybe it was something else? I wasn’t sure, but it was as if the thread of time thinned to a single string, then rethickened with the emergence of feedback I received in the creative writing class. I placed the papers I wanted to keep in a tanned folder. I liked to think that I did it with a smile, or with a heart warmed by the memories. I really relearned parts of myself then, and also understood how others saw me, too.

I could sense people’s perceptions of me in the notes I carried. I came across a thick glossy paper that read “most likely to be a slam poet” from my speech and debate club. I think I might have chuckled, because I shortly found the series of poems I wrote in high school after reading my paper award. I read a few of these silly poems out loud. I guess the people I met in speech and debate noticed my interest in that too.

I skimmed through the feedback that my former peers wrote for one of my short stories I did in my college creative writing class. It was nice to look at, to receive recognition from other people interested in writing. Although I had mixed feelings about that class, I won’t deny my appreciation for what that class did for me.

And my gratitude swelled with every note seen and letter discovered. One of my favorite ones came in a bright neon pink paper. Time had chipped at its edges. I might have gotten it in the summer that I had to take PE and health classes (a requirement for graduation in my state). I don’t quite remember where I got it, but I know what it was for. People were given a sheet of paper with a name on it, and people had to say something nice about the person the paper was addressed to.

So there I was, reading a few sentences written under my name. I laughed when I got to a comment about someone saying that I looked nice in braces because I remember feeling so self conscious about them. I felt happy as I read the message that my seatmate wrote about how they were happy that we sat next to each other. The one that really brought me to tears though, was a message scribbled in a pinched font, as if the letters itself were afraid to take too much space. Minus the common misspelling of my name (which I do find funny) at the beginning, it said :

“you’re really smart, all the effort that you put into your work is paying off. Rember to value yourself.”

I giggled myself into tears, because the message felt too good to be true. At that moment, it didn’t feel like my work had paid off. So, seeing that piece of paper did make me cry. Hazy faces of people– now strangers–that I can barely remember made me cry. I should've outgrown this. How embarrassing, but what a relief.

I slid the pink paper in between the pages of my actual journal. A makeshift bookmark that I can casually look back on when I need it.

….

I placed the bags of papers into the main bin on a vivid blue morning. Stripes of clouds had etched across the sky like plaid-like patterns. I carried each bag towards the bin, slinging some on my back if needed. I didn’t know that papers could feel so heavy. How can a piece of my history, a sliver of time, feel so weighty? A few years can feel like a lot and a little at the same time.

Each bag made a sigh of goodbye as I placed them in the bin. I placed the last one as the garbage truck rumbled across the street. Just in time.

I did the same thing a day later with plastics, and I returned the Book of Form and Emptiness a day after that. The sky was just as vivid then as it was when I gave my papers and books and trinkets away.

I handed away the book, releasing an anticipated whisper of air.

If you read till the end, thank you for making it this far! This journal was a string of word vomit but I really wanted to get it out there. It was a long and difficult process (the backspace key was pressed a little too much), but I’m glad it’s here… and a bit nervous too (I’ll probably delete this later, it feels so too vulnerable to share). This entry is also a bit long and lacking focus in certain areas, so I don’t expect anyone to actually read it. But if you did, you’re a real one. Now, back to normal operations of writing whatever I want and whenever I can! Thanks again, and I hope you’ll stick around!

Original Image by myungho lee from Pixabay

For the greatest thing

I’ve read all the books with utmost diligence

With earnest sincerity

Pairs of people

Skin wrinkled across sun kissed days

Bodies becoming entangled yarns through song

The words jumped from the pages

Filling up eyes and heart,

Soaking them up, like rain to soil

Making them damp,

Then too wet, marking another year of lost harvest

They are weary of waiting

For that feeling

…what about me?

I’ve become the hazy clouds

Drifting through vivid blue backdrop

Shorter than few breaths of midsummer afternoon

Melting into water then rerising to cloud

In search of the greatest thing

…what about me?

I’ve practiced

With the greatest patience

To molt my soul with another

To soak myself up

In the essence of another

I’m tired of waiting

A kiss goodbye

Wishes of floating dandelion seeds

I’ve gone, searching for the greatest thing

That will complete me

…what about us?

I have an issue with letting go of things, assessing when I need to throw something out. I used to call it sentimentality, akin to the fondness one feels deep in their chest as they read cards gifted to them over the years. Now, I’m starting to realize this emotion is much closer to fear than love. It is the same pang of sorrow that washed over me when I realized that a precious card of mine was thrown away without my knowledge, or the rush of anger that ran through my body when I found that a part of my makeshift jewelry box case had been thrown away. I rushed to a corner where nobody could see me and I paced around, repeating grievances that felt all too familiar to me. As the years go by, I’m coming to terms that one day, everything that I have in the house could disappear. In fact, I’m quite prepared for that possibility. The artworks I made in high school collect dust in the garage, waiting to be thrown out. The rusty saxophone I recently picked up again wouldn’t sell for much, but it could be given out anyways. And the books on the shelves? Well, they must be given away, they are taking up too much space. My world is taking up too much space here. Here, there and everywhere. The constant discarding pushed me to stuff miscellaneous things in my drawer. The more precious things are moved into and concealed in a golden suitcase. Because I might need to move again. Maybe to a house a few blocks down the street, as we did in the fall of nineteen. Or to the other side of the world, and we did in the summer of sixteen. No matter where it is, I’ll be ready. To me, home slowly became the objects that I keep rather than in the spaces that I’m in. For the longest time, taking my objects meant taking pieces of home away from me. Even now, I still carry remnants of this feeling. Manifestations of this child of fear.

….

Okay, I didn’t expect to be so vulnerable in this part, but it’s nice to be vulnerable. That’s something I’m slowly relearning and growing into. Vulnerability not just in sharing your concerns, but in giving a voice to the fears that you have. In Yann Martel’s Life of Pi (one of my favorite books of all time, my tenth grade English teacher was on to something) that explores this idea of pushing back against fear :

“I must say a word about fear. It is life’s only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unnerving ease. It begins in your mind, always ... so you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.”

This was a snippet taken from a quote that was much longer (read the book to find that out, I highly recommend). Without spoiling too much, Pi (who is our main character) is stuck in a bad situation. A bit more than just a slippery situation. But yeah. He was trapped in this really bad situation. You know what he did though? Started saying a bunch of poetic, flowery, shit. Because he had nothing else to do. Shit like the quote you see above, and he is right. By giving word to the fears you have, you are actively taking steps in confronting them, and in doing so changing yourself.

But what happens when you don’t confront your fears? Well, like Pi said, it attacks you in other ways. Because while you think that you’ve forgotten your fear, it hasn’t forgotten you. You can dress it up all you want. In trophies glazed in spray paint, and accolades encased in thin glass frames. You can mask it in the nice fast cars, or in the latest jewelry you buy. You can have the biggest house and have luxuries so immense that you cannot even fathom how much you have. But you cannot hide the scent of fear. Not with soaps or fragments or body sprays. You really can’t run away from it if you try.

Let it fester, and its tiny children will manifest. Their destruction is anything but small. Pale grey faces with pitch black eyes. Serene Cheshire smiles revealing shark white teeth. With shadows making up their silhouette, they only have one goal. To see you fall. They’ll push you to work hard towards goals you never desired. To be around people who at worst won’t care if you were burning at the pyre. To fall into addictions so suddenly, and sometimes so lovingly so that you stay. One more drink, one more puff, one more scroll. Suddenly you forget why you fought so hard for it in the first place. For the trophies, accolades, cars, jewelry, all the luxuries that can be thrown out as smoothly as a worn out card.

Then you get anxious. You say this is who you are, even when there was an entirely different version of yourself that didn’t have such problems. That’s what these children do– they love distorting memories. And sometimes, if they are powerful enough, they make you forget them. They’ll take up the shape of algae-like vines and worm their way past your eardrums and go straight to your brain. Then, they begin to squeeze the fluids out of it. Translucent life fluid is gushing out of your ears and through your mouth when you keep saying the word “later”. For some, they have the opportunity to return to themselves. But for many, that privilege isn’t offered, whether it be through circumstance shaping their choices or their choices shaping their circumstances. The vines have already dried up the mind, and in doing so, infiltrated the heart. They kill the heart long before the body cools.

Isn’t that sad? Maybe I’m being a bit too dramatic. Maybe your fear could manifest as clinging to things, doomscrolling, and the fear of being vulnerable, like me. Because when you’re afraid, you get on tiktok and then your fyp gets jammed with posts about that fuel your anxiety even more, with the possibility of getting maybe two posts that’ll actually make you that good dopamine hit! Oh wait…that’s just as bad isn’t it? Random aside, I learned that some people might go through psychosis because of the app as well. Put in notes…look up “social media ... tiktok ... mass psychosis” on google scholar in the next twenty years (if it even exists)!

But on a very serious note, I’m not saying that tiktok is bad. I’m not some anti-tiktok purist. However, there is something to be said about spending three hours a day on an app, sometimes even more. Not making money. Not connecting with anybody. Just watching, occasionally laughing (or crying), then scrolling. I got pretty tired of this. I noticed that my free time was consumed by the app, and it got worse after graduating from college. I had returned back home and realized why a younger version of myself fought so hard to run away from it all. I felt life unraveling during the first six months post graduation, from health changes to broken relationships to anticipated losses of loved ones (and seeing the impact of actual losses around me) and nice dashes of retraumatization (just to keep the story short).

I found solace in Tiktok. I returned to shows I loved when I was younger, watching them both online and through edits on the app. The phrases ‘if you find this, then this is for you’ and ‘if you find it, God wants you to hear something’ became engraved in my mind. I knew none of them were actually for me. The people couldn’t see me, nor gently grab my fingers to gauge some type of divine message that was meaningful to my actual being, but a part of me wanted so desperately to believe. Tiktok and my fingers engaged in a swift swiping dance. In the span of six months, we both created a shaky tower, each brick of the structure made of ephemeral algorithmic fingerprints. They kept me safe. Sad of course, and very anxious, but safe nevertheless. The days felt long but months passed by quite quickly. Digital memories falling through my mind like sand, leaking into and unraveling the fabric of my lived reality.

Then, one snowy January afternoon, something snapped. For the first time in a long time, I began to write something. Something vulnerable and meaningful to my being. That piece became The Sandbags. You’ll probably find it on this Substack account if you look long enough. It might sound silly to you, but as I wrote it, I could feel a massive weight on my chest lifting with every word I typed. It almost like each phrase I typed formed a massive metal anchor to retrieve a child of fear that nestled in my heart. When I was done, I really did feel lighter. I remembered why I loved writing so much. I made a resolution then to not forget that reason. I decided to sew the practice of writing into my world.

Okay, so to do that I decided to go on a (practice, journey? I don’t know) of creative recovery and expression. Not going to get into that because that’s a whole other story. I will say that I learned a lot about myself from this venture, and will take so many lessons from it. One of these is the value of journaling. Not just reflective journaling, or a structured one. I will describe this type of journaling as a more stream of consciousness type of journaling. I have journaled before, but never as frequently, or intensely as I’ve done this year. I started waking up earlier to write at least three pages of anything that popped up in my mind. And I mean, anything. I poured my anxieties, fears, heartbreaks, doubts into those pages. With every scribbled page, my heart became lighter. As the weeks passed, I wrote more freely, as my heart let me. Two pages, three pages, sometimes seven pages daily. As long as I’m doing it consistently, the amount begins to matter less. I would also journal as soon as I got overwhelmed. As soon as I felt like my emotions were too much to bear, my writing gave me the words that my voice didn’t seem to muster.

I love writing, not just because it’s creative and fun, but because it’s also healing. It allowed, and will continue to give a voice to my fears, to shine that light of words on it. And every day, I use my words to confront and slowly overcome them, those pesky little children. I mean, here I am, sharing something that a younger me would’ve never imagined sharing online, but I’m all the more better for it.

So, if you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading. I hope you give a voice to any anxieties and fears you have in your heart. It doesn’t have to be journaling, but you have to do it in some way. Or else…I don’t know. I don’t know you, so I can give a voice to your fears for you. You’ll have to figure them out yourself, and shine the light of words on them. But if I can try, that means you can try too (this sounds corny doesn’t it…oh well!). Remember, there’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable, and don’t let those pesky children of fear get you down!

Supple and pure,

Cover that allure.

Take good care of it, they say,

It is a blessing to be born whole

And an even greater glory to remain whole.

Because what is love if not pristine intactness?

But I always thought of it more as a vessel,

Vessel of impracticality and incompleteness.

Becomes tired too easily, freezes ever so readily–

Cool popsicle resting on sidewalks edge on

A scorching summer’s day.

It basks and tans and its form trickles over

down rusted storm drains.

Vessel of practicality and incompleteness,

With bones not quite strong enough.

With a heart that came weak and refined rough,

Leady and heavy, too much to the touch.

I’m grateful for my vessel, as it is a temple as they tell me.

I should be grateful,

But what is a temple worth, if it’s missing its parts?

A temple incomplete, peeled apart?

One that always needed a little fixing,

But never seemed to find it.

I should be grateful.

But sometimes,

I feel like–

Feel like peeling my skin off,

After

As with tape off old house paint, my brown skin takes some

Pieces of darkened pink dermis with them.

To reveal vessels and organs encased within bony cages.

That’s my temple’s interior .

Sheets of cardiovascular muscles encase the altar.

Look at my frame in the mirror, helps me feel better,

Before quickly worsening my mood.

Everyone can and should improve, I whisper,

Too get out of my brood.

Baggy eyes, a sign of tiredness, also can elicit fear.

I’ll smile more again today, so that I can feel joy is near.

I can’t be upset, lest I get mistaken for being mad,

And that realization makes me even more sad.

I wash everything away,

With boiling water if I could,

So that my vessel can be one that’s perfect as it should.

Your body is a temple they say,

Keep it nice and well.

If you don’t,

You’ll go to hell.

But I wish,

I could escape this shell,

To become an invisible angel.

Drifting across blue atmosphere,

Winds guiding me.

Or perhaps a friendly shadow,

Yet why do these desires,

Make me feel hollow?

Been soaking in too much waste,

I’m about to sink.

But I’m about to –

Be on the brink,

Precipice.

Something blooms.

Precipice.

Then suddenly,

I’m awakened by the smell of perfumes.

Photo by Alyssa Hurley on Unsplash

You’d like a nibble of my fingers, and a gobble around my toes,

A bit of this, a dash of that, spare the little bones.

Save that for leftovers, to simmer over until pearly white and soft

A-me stock.

You’d like some of that, won’t you?

It’s absolutely fine, it’ll only hurt a little.

When it’s all said and done, you can insist that they are still there,

Please tell me that they are still there,

My buttered up brown fingers, with peach nail plates glued upon peachlike nailbeds

Gaunt toes, with their own harder nails and all.

Tell me they are still there.

So that I can have the courage,

To create phantom drawings on empty paper sheets

To stumble across the pavements in colds or high heat—

Doing this all and many more, with soft smiles

Because you’ll smile too

When you insist on such things, it’s what you do.

You will say it with such a conviction, that my lost appendages will regrow,

Then I’ll believe it

Because that’s what you do.

And I know I’ll adore it, I know I’ll have to

Because I love you, and that’s all I can do.

I don’t have the courage to love anyone else

Besides you

I know,

You wouldn’t be happy with just those

I can tell, and I stood corrected.

Only a few seconds after your melodies were over,

You told me that you’d like my nose.

You said you’d like it sweet and bloody—

For making bubble gums, you say.

So I let you tear it off,

Leaving a nose shaped hole

Where sticky burgundy blood gushes out.

Through my coughing and wheezing,

I can make out

Your lips making forming an oh

As you’ve made my skin chewing gum to blow.

Despite my chest beating with fear,

You tell me, oh you tell me

That my nose is still there.

How I look so beautiful, your little ephemeral angel!

It’s what you do

And I believe, yes I believe

Because I don’t have the courage to love anyone else but you.

If I don’t, then you’ll go

For another meal,

And there’s nothing more terrifying

Than having the courage to

Stumble across hard pavements

Create phantom drawings

Without you.

I’ll kneel by the altar,

Whispering ineffable prayers

Because that is what I do

For you.

I lie naked on the dinner table,

As you commence your final carnage,

Slowly, gently, lovingly.

You tug my legs and arms away from my center,

Indulging yourself on my nimble forearms and knobby knees,

Smacking your mouth eagerly, with soothing ease.

With a quaint silver knife, you carve red line across my abdomen.

With blood stained hand, you dig in

Then, you rip through my stomach

To excavate the contents inside.

I feel your lovely lips

As they caress my organs

Before ripping them through.

Nibble there, gobble there

Through a vision now blurry,

I can make out your fingers clutching my intestines,

Pale pink sausage-like strings.

Are you saving them for later?

Sparing the rougher parts for garnish,

And my bones for a nice me stock?

I can’t ask you, as it is too painful to speak,

Every nerve in my body rings and twitches incessantly

I only have the courage,

To hear the sounds of your voice singing between chews

About how I’m so beautiful.

My ephemeral angel,

You say between bites.

I can make out, your soft smile—

Your quick bites are now matching the sound of my heartbeat,

As she makes a final attempt at life.

Was that your intention?

I can’t ask, but only offer thanks,

For your sweet consideration

For your boisterous display of affection.

After I’m all but gone,

You’d gather the leftovers.

Tough skin for garnish,

Bones for a me stock,

My limp heart, and bloodshot eyes as keepsakes.

You leave red painted tablecloth with some remains behind,

On your way to other decadent meals.

I’m not surprised, that’s what you do,

But please tell me that you wouldn’t forget me

Long after the tablecloth dries.

I can only have the courage,

To imagine that my memory still lingers in your mind.

That’s the only thing I can do.

I am happy, at least

To know that I was loved enough to become your feast.

Is it possible to feel like a mermaid without a tail?

She knew one could certainly be an angel without wings, at least. Someone used to call her angel several times, and with such a strong conviction too. They said it gently over and over again, so much so that she believed it. That the faiths behind every recitation of the word angel alone had the power to cast a spell upon her, adorning her bare dark back with wings coated in shades of pastel. But she was in the midst of a deep azure horizon that stretched far beyond what her eyes could make of it. There were no clouds here. Her form felt cold to the point of numbness, and the coolness of water pressed against her flesh, wanting to completely consume her. If she took a deep breath of odorless ocean and gave herself permission to become permeable, then maybe it would be all over. She would let the water seep through her skin and break her bones. She could become a conduit for something beyond this.

But a jarring tenseness had kept the water at bay. She couldn’t make sense of it, nor could she shake it off her. She only knew that her chest was pounding incessantly for some moments, then it seemed to shatter into a thousand pieces that travelled across her body. The fragments were still alive, still shaking. They made her want to move. If she couldn’t have wings to fly, she wanted to use her legs to run. She never learned how to swim. Since she opened her eyes, she jerked through this empty space, pushing through for so long that she had forgotten why she wanted to move in the first place. So she chose to float instead, knowing that the pieces vibrated restlessly in her. If she had a tail this process would be easier for her. One lustrous with golden flesh and a hardened fin and would propel her towards the surface. An appendage that would never get tired. She pushed her will towards her suspended fingertips. Move, just move. Please, just clench up. Do something, I want you to do something, so why?

Her breathing and blinking quickened as her head began to pound softly. Mouth wide open, she tried to force fragments of her broken heart to come out. She yelled intensely, but her wails were muffled by swishing rhythms that surrounded her. Mustering her last strength, she wrapped her body in a fetal position. The chiming of a song and the beating of drums resonated in the distance. The clicks and snaps and chants of life. The water would take her there, if she let it. In spite of broken bones and torn up flesh, the fragments inside her would fizzle away with the current until they became everything and nothing.

She sighed, letting her body relax. The pressure was surprisingly gentle. The music was getting ever closer as the singing became louder. The water was making its way through her head, letting her feel heavy. She slowly closed her eyes, letting herself forget even the fragments. Soon enough, she’ll be there.

“Angel! My little Lilypad, where are you?”

The sharp voice cut through the drums, through chanting , through the rhythms of the ocean. She opened her eyes sharply, turning her head.

“Lilypad, my little baby angel, where are you?”

She looked upwards. I’m here! She mouthed I’m here.

“I admit you’ve won. Come out, come out now!”

I’m coming! I’m coming!

With a new vigor, she kicked her legs and pushed her hands against the tides of the water. The sea resisted her pursuit, but the voice, calling her softly, reignited her.

“Lily! Lily! Lily!”

She didn’t have wings, nor did she have a tail. But the tone of that voice was stronger than any spell. She wanted nothing more than to be near that voice. To hear herself being called upon again.

Wait for me, I’m coming!

From a distance, she could make out streaks of a bright moonlight. The endless dark blue became a backdrop to this new scene, something to look forward to. The waters thrusted down on her. A desperate final attempt. The recitation of Angel became a new song to her ears.

Her hands broke through the surface to meet an embrace. From water to warm. From cold to fur.

What is the cost of being creative?

This is a question that has danced around my mind for as long as I’ve remembered. Okay not really, maybe since I was like seventeen, and I actually had to get serious about school, college, and a mix of all those worries that kept my stomach up in a knot. I knew from a young age that I wanted to create, and that I found deep joy in it. I wasn’t sure what I would do with this energy, or how I’d channel into something useful. But there was this quiet part in me, that’s still there. When I read a book, or listen to a piece of music. Their words coax me into different worlds. Even then, as I co-directed silly little games with my sisters, I wanted that feeling to last forever. We were creators, spectators, and commenters in our own little world, transforming it every second with our conversations and interjections. I knew I wanted to do something like that someday, to create spaces that people would enjoy.

But as I’m growing, I’m realizing that there is a cost to that kind of aspiration. I’m not talking about money. Although finances are always at the back of every creative’s mind (the starving artist is a popular trope for a reason, which is really bad because I like comfort… I really like to eat) there’s a cost that goes even deeper. A cost that only comes out when you start taking your dreams seriously, when a promise quickly becomes a vow. These vows have a lifeline. With each passing day they become ever so pressing and shorter, like a weight in my chest. It almost seems like time is running out.

Urged by this lifeline, I made a Substack account. I’m not the biggest fan of the social media and marketing aspect of the whole thing. As of posting this, my profile picture is probably of the skies I took while I was with my sisters down at Colorado, and not of my face. I have a strong aversion to being perceived, and I get nervous about expressing myself authentically. Despite this, I’ve tried to frame it in a different light. And I’m glad I did– I am slowly building and fostering a beautiful community. I’ve seen so many talented and motivated people on this website that inspire me to continue creating. To be a part of this makes me truly grateful. However, the ultimate reason why I made this account was to build a structure around my creative work. In fact, I was inspired to create and continue this Substack account for the sole purpose of healing my creative self.

I tend to daydream frequently instead of writing out my ideas on paper. It became so much of a problem that I would catch myself talking to myself about my stories in the confines of my own home. It’s not really socially acceptable to be talking to yourself, even if it is in private. If you heard that your neighbor was talking to themselves at home you wouldn’t think they were quite alright there, too. So I believed that writing these stories on this account would be the first step towards that venture (and towards actually doing the work instead of…talking to myself about it). I’ve posted one piece almost every week to build creative consistency, and at first I enjoyed it. Being more creative in my daily life made it easier for me to come up with new ideas to publish here. But as the weeks go by, trying to find a balance between posting for consistency and adhering to a creative timeline has been difficult to grapple with. The social nature of Substack aggravates this challenge. I’ve been anxiously analyzing my dashboard and views more frequently, wondering what I should do. If I should post earlier or later. If I should advertise my page more. If my notes aren’t funny or interesting enough. If my stories should even be written at all. Because visibility, especially in the creative field, means that your work matters. At least that is what the views told me.

After posting my last piece, I closed the Substack tab. I made some comments here and there, but I did not feel the motivation to parade my piece. I felt like a newsboy holding out the latest paper, dashing around and shoving my stories in the faces of faceless avatars on this digital stage in attempts to prove that my article is important. But the average faceless avatar is also a newsboy as well. If we are both lucky, we would both buy our papers, and we would read them later over a nice cup of our favorite drink. But usually, we pass each other by, too overwhelmed by the sea of other newsboys flaying their latest papers around. The whole stage is piled up with pieces of unread newspapers, and the race to have more of my papers in people’s hands instead of on the floor has left me both weary and disillusioned. I had to write deeply about this to understand the root of these feelings. From that session, I discovered that I had been operating on a creative timeline. I knew then, that if I let a timeline control me, even subconsciously, I could sabotage any progress that I’ve made towards creative recovery.

It seems so silly, especially as a writer, to not value a timeline or place it at least as a priority. Many authors strongly suggest having a consistent schedule, especially when you are writing the first draft of your novel. A thousand words a day is the gold standard for novelists. I agree with these recommendations as well— the faster you finish your story, the faster you can refine your ideas to their fullest potential. That is what writing is all about. You write, then write again. However, having a creative timeline is very different from being consistent. To me, a timeline is a moment where I give it my all. A straight path with the wind gusting in the opposite direction, forcing me to fight against it until I get to the next stop. When I get the fruits of this labor, that’s when I’ll feel fulfilled. If only more people were reading this, I would think. Give it five years, ten years…but what if it’s all a waste? What if I’m not where I want to be? What if I’m not recognized? If I’m not recognized, I can’t make a living off this, and I wouldn’t be able to help others, maybe I should just give up. There are a lot of questions that you can pose from these series of intrusive thoughts, such as why recognition seems to be such a requirement in my creative world, but I think these ideas I have about creative timeline and success all stem from one thing: I’m not honoring the creative process enough.

Something I’ve begun to notice about a lot of creatives (but this can apply to most people as well), is that we give ourselves a milestone to fulfill, within a specific timeline. To us, meeting those goals would count as being successful. I could be successful if only I did this or did that by then. Except life really does not operate like that. I’ve heard that life is often like a forest, but sometimes I feel like I’m on a boat, drifting through a murky blue sea. I’m not sure where or when I’ll find a piece of land to rest on, or if I would be able to stay in that place forever. I’m not sure when I’ll find an island, but the only thing I can do is focus on my sails. In doing so, I can admire the skies above, and inspect the waters below. If I stare enough, I will notice that the ocean catches the golden shimmer of the sun, and how the stars shine brighter after a midnight rain.

I’m not sure how to end this, but I’ll end it like this. If you read this long, thank you. As a creative, it’s not very easy, but I’m finding a bit a solace in the process of it all. All work has value, not because of the recognition it receives, but because it’s there. I know that anything I create has value because I created it, and it’s well…there. Just like the stars in the sky or the rocks at the bottom of the murky luminescent seas. My work is beautiful because it exists, and even when it ceases to remain even a memory. It will always be beautiful because it exists. Even this word vomit of a journal entry (it’s not as bad as my journals, but well…). It’s beautiful because by finishing it I made it exist. I’m not promoting this piece, so I doubt many people might see this, but if you are reading this, know that any creative work you do is beautiful too. Anything you create, whether it be through your hands, or feet, or the rising and falling of your lips. Or even through your own very existence. I hope you know that your work is beautiful too. Your creative work, just like you, is beautiful because it exists.

Image by Van3ssa_ on Pixabay

She stumbled across a song

While washing porcelain plates

It was really an accident

Her wrinkly fingers, soaked with soapy water

Reached out for her phone,

Clicking away from dark black screen

To only come back moments later

After a set of white bowl and blue cup is complete

And resting on a foamy drying mat

Would she return to the familiar sounding song

She let it play, a few seconds more than the last,

She gave it permission to speak

And in doing so, she learned

How many times have we stopped to ask ourselves about what we’ve learned today? It’s certainly easier to assess our skills while we are in school. Education is a tool that people utilize to learn. Traditional educational systems rely on consistency, structure, and assessment students can utilize to assess their knowledge, at least to the extent that a Math test or an English paper can offer this. The student learns about social systems from the people they interact with in school. Subconscious social rules get reinforced at educational institutions. Some students find community and support within these systems, from friends, to mentors, and even strangers. They carry lessons they learn both in and out of the class with them. As one of these students, I’ve been grappling with what education means to me, especially since I’ve been out of college. For several months, I noticed I stopped learning as much. Which is expected, I’m no longer consuming ideas for the purpose of understanding them or assessing my knowledge, I’m simply just consuming. But towards the end of the previous year, I decided that I wanted to write essays on substack. I loved writing essays in high school, the process was both a difficult and rewarding process during my time in college. I brought out my laptop. With an upright posture I typed out outlines of my ideas. I made a folder titled Essay Work, and files titled The Framing of Martyrdom: Christian Muslim Conflict In Nigeria, Submissive Children, Submissive Subjects, Spiritual Psychosis in the Age of Media: Lines Between Belief and Delusion, and A book of Form and Emptiness, respectively. Today, each document remains blank, and the only file in the Essay work folder is my abandoned book review that I planned on completing months ago. In those months I thought I was dying slowly, only to realize that I wasn’t learning anything at all.

She went to a glassy mall

Craving a forest green notebook she saw on lumiscient screen

There she was approached by a student

For Fundraising he said

She learnt that he was from abroad

He learned that she’d lived abroad

She left the conversation,

Wishing that she didn’t give so much of her money

Money was tight,

But her heart hadn’t caught up with her pockets

She’s still too open, she thought

Smiling and still being too accommodating she thought

With these thoughts came immediate guilt

It’s for fundraising she thought

There’s no need to feel guilty

As she debated the validity of her decision

She heard a song from her right side

The song she just learnt about weeks ago,

She turned

Only to see a black coated restaurant

Stuffed between rows and rows of department stores

What a beautiful coincidence, she thought

When you stop learning, you start dying. This is a phrase that I’ve heard all my life. It is the phrase that carried my parents to fund our education. As I’ve grown older, I understand their desire to get us into education only went so far as the desire to get a high paying or prestigious job. This isn’t uncommon in the West African community. There’s an ongoing joke among immigrants or children of immigrants about their parents only seeing law, medicine, or engineering as viable career paths. I discovered quickly that I would like to partake in neither of these fields, with law being the field I would undertake only if I grow to love it, and this has left my parents very bewildered. Books, which they once stared at with admiration, are now looked down on with deep scrutiny. To them, books are tools that have to offer a direct and tangible benefit in your life. I learned to be extra cautious of the stories I pick in the library so as to not cause arguments. Occasionally, I hide them under piles of notebooks and other miscellaneous things. I slowly grew ashamed of reading simply for pleasure.

My parents understand the value of education, but only to the point of being financially beneficial. You can see it in the degrees they pursued and the jobs they chose. In the subjects they value and the ones they look down upon. I understand where they come from— education is one of the only tools for socio-economic mobility, and this rings true in the United States. Reading for pleasure does not put food on the table or keep the lights on, and they won’t be where they are if they only read for fun. Beneath the stifling presence of their surveillance lies raw fear and worry. It is sincere, if not precarious, a form of care.

My experience isn’t very unique. A lot of immigrants or children of immigrants face similar pressures. While everyone could face pressure to go into particular fields (whether it be for prestige or for money), there is a heightened level of pressure immigrants or children of immigrants face because of the lack of safety nets and support that comes with navigating a different country. And many do find success in their respective fields– whether it be in medicine, law, engineering or any other prestigious role. What I am trying to speak to is the unspoken pressure of certainty that could force learners to decide their paths out of perceived safety instead of truth. And while someone’s truth might lie in the hospital or the courtroom, there could be a lot at stake for people who know that. Higher Education is interesting in that way. For some, it is a powerful source of liberation, but for others it can keep them stuck.

Like many other melodies

This one too will pass

It will run from the crown of her head, to the soles of her feet

Warm running waters enveloping her

Till they reach her heart, making her feel complete

Then, days and months and years fly by

She’ll forget the song

And for such pertinence she gave it?

Oh, she would wonder why

But one day the curiosity strikes again

Whether it be from ecstasy or loss or love

Like when she relearned a series of other songs

That one sunny afternoon

She played the album

From beginning to end

And oh, oh, oh how she cried

For a moment, she thought she had to send

These songs on their merry way

But the songs had more to tell her

The passing repeated itself

Oh, on that brand new day

The pursuit of higher education is something I’ve been grappling with, especially since my graduation last year. Questions about what’s next are posed with the expectation of a role instead of a possibility, leaving me floored in response. My preprogrammed answer is ‘job, then law school’ but my heart is pulling me in an entirely different direction. Maybe my desire to take a gap year is a strategic delay– something to take my mind off the fact that I’m standing at the precipice of a decision. On the mountaintop between stability and chance, I grip my backpack. I want to take a leap, but I’m not sure if my parachute would work, or that my body would splat out on impact to unseen grounds below. Would the winds and clouds guide and coax me to green pastures, or would a gust of fiery rainstorm burst forth in the middle of my dive and push my body into an unforgiving ocean? I could just turn around, choose to live my life on the mountaintop. It’s safe here. I could build something for myself. Very mundane, but stable nonetheless. Eventually, I could even learn to love it. But what if I hate it, and what if the moment to leap can never happen again in my lifetime? I’m not sure about many things, but one thing is very certain. The time spent thinking about this decision could be used in learning, so I’ll definitely die if I remain on the precipice between stability and chance.

He asked for a dime, pulling his cotton mask slightly

He mentioned it was to get a better change

She placed floral notebook on the table

And searched to her coins for change

Only to realize

That she knew of pennies and quarters

And half dollars by many miles

But she had forgotten the shape of a dime

She scooped up coins

Both from local lands and from across the seas

To hope that the man finds the lucky dime, wherever it may be

With all coins on the table, purse been exhausted

Her eyes blanky scanned each rusted metal

Then, to her astonishment, the man retrieved a small silver coin

From the pile of shiny trinkets

He had retrieved the only dime in the collection

What a magician!

With flourish of his hands

Another trick, just one more time

He retrieved the rest of the change

Two dollars, a penny and to her surprise, another dime

After an exchange of gratitude, she walked out of the store

Floral book in hand

She learned that there were intelligent people

Who knew how to count coins and find dimes in metallic lands

Because I’m not in school at the moment, I’ve attempted to keep some semblance of educational rhythm in my life. Unlike school though, there is no obvious test. No yes or no, nor half points off your essay. There is no hand that guides you, except if you go out of your own way to seek it. And mentors can only do so much. They can suggest potentials and offer aid, but the mentee has to forge their own path. There have been several moments where I had to become my own mentor, affirming myself in corners where nobody would see me. Times when I had to rock myself to sleep, eyes swollen and head pounding. There have been times when I had to lecture myself, like a parent does to a child. There have been times where I had to baby myself, chanting the lyrics to my favorite songs as I drive down the roads. My voice clashes with the song playing on my phone, making the melody disjointed but fully mine. I’ve attempted to keep some semblance of educational rhythm, but the beat does feel very different.

Through the ebbs and flows of it all, I’ve come to learn and relearn a bit more about the world around me, and thus a bit more about myself. I noticed that every person walks in a unique little way. Some stroll and glide, while others take confident strides. Some with hands in their pockets, or on their phone. On rare occasions, two hands are linked together, and two bodies suddenly move like they are one. I’ve learned that people talk differently, some with rasps and some with cheer. I’ve come to learn and appreciate the tenacity of older people and the carefreeness of younger ones. Now, I’m writing more than ever. I’ve been learning and relearning aspects about myself, even some that I was once ashamed of. They are becoming my source of strength. One day they’ll become my source of connection. There are many people, millions of someones out there, going through similar stages in life, but transforming theirs in ways that are only unique to them. Their own different walks of life. That pondering keeps me open to worlds of learning and relearning. It is beautiful as it is expansive. For now, it is enough. I hope it will be enough to propel me towards my next steps, too.

He broke an important promise.

Nate walked across cracking pavement roads, each footstep bouncing off airy echoes. This realization didn’t quite phase him as much as it should. His Mom, Janette, wouldn’t be surprised that he broke his promise. Disappointed, and even afraid if he gets back too late, but not surprised. Once an issue, always an issue– until you nip it in the bud, as his Grandma told Janette once.

“You need to be more serious with the boy,” He overheard Grandma scolding Janette in private. It was a sunny summer afternoon, and they were staying with Grandma at the time. He had returned home from exploring the neighborhood on gravel and concrete. Hands sticky from the blue popsicle he’d just finished, he walked over to the kitchen to wash his hands, only to hear voices from upstairs.

“He’s absolutely fine.” His mother’s voice, usually soft, carried an icy edge

“Have you seen the way he just runs around? No rhyme or rhythm to it!” His Grandma raised her voice. “I asked him the other day if he has any friends. If he plays any sports, or if he wants to play any instruments, or if he wants to do anything. Do you know what he said?” Nate could picture his grandmother raising her raisined hands up and down in slow flourish. “He said nothing! That he prefers to just walk around, walk around to do what? He said he doesn’t even know!”

“Ma, he’s fine. If he isn’t then he would tell me.”

“Hmph…he’s a growing boy now. I understand that you care, but there are things boys wouldn’t tell you.”

“I’m his mother. If not me then who would he tell?”

Nate held his breath. There was a pause that stretched on, like a moment of silence. Then, as if he didn’t want to hear the answer, climbed the stairs, skipping some steps to make sure that each stride made the wooden floors creak louder.

Sure enough it worked. Grandma was the first to greet him as he finished ascending the stairs. Her silky pink dress matched the walls of her bedroom. She’d indulged Nate about the lore of her dress several times. She told him it once used to be a beautiful ballgown. She had worn it for her second date with Grandpa.

“I don’t usually wear things like that initially. But I had a special feeling after our first one. It lasted the whole evening. We went to the diner, they had the best shakes…I wish they didn’t have to close. I would’ve taken you there after Sunday service.”

“Ma, the sodas are enough.”

“But there aren’t those shakes. The Jones were very good to us.” She sighed, “Well, after that we just strolled around town, and talked, we talked about all our favorite places around town. We even passed by some. Then the conversation went on and on until he brought me right back to my doorstep. I walked right out of the house thinking I was going to say no to a second date, but we had so many places we wanted to go together .” She turned to Nate “You should always dress up nice, and act like a gentleman.”

“What about girls?” Nate asked cheekily

“Well yes, everyone has to dress nicely. And good men don’t wear ugly looking things. Your grandpa was always well put together. And he didn’t question what I dressed up like.” Grandma hit his arm lightly, “So don’t do that, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“That’s yes Grandma to you.”

“Yes Grandma.”

On days she wasn’t wearing it, she would secure the dress in the corner of her drawer, having it cushioned by a border of clothes and socks. She would sometimes put it on, get her makeup done, and glide around the house with matching pink lilies.

“When I wore this dress on our second date, he had given me a bouquet of flowers, and they were white and pink? That felt like fate.” He overheard Grandma talking to his Janette.

“He didn’t know what you’re wearing?” Nate thought he could hear a hint of a smile. His Mom definitely sounded interested enough.

“Yes, and a pearl necklace too. Didn’t I tell you this before?”

“Yes Ma,” He heard Janette laugh.

Grandma continued like she didn’t hear her, “And then he took me to a garden with string lights. They were golden and so pretty. When I tell you that we danced–”

“And danced and danced,” Janette continued, “Ow, Come on Ma! I’m not a baby.”

“Then don’t act like one. Hmph!”

If she had a little more guts, or if she didn’t mind ruffling a few feathers, she would have worn it as a surprise for her wedding day. The shocked faces of her parents and the mixed expressions of her bridesmaids would have been funny to see. But most of all, she would’ve loved the disgusted face of her aunt the best. She said this with a hearty guffaw.

“But your Grandpa was so mellow…I had already picked a beautiful white gown at that point, and he wanted to maintain a sense of peace at the wedding, you know? I was stressed about the whole wedding thing. Everyone was being so so so–hmph! I said, I want to do something my way to remind you all about who you’re talking to! But your Grandpa… he noticed that I was going to make that decision out of spite. He said I would regret it if I pulled a stunt like that. So I didn’t.”

“Did you regret it?” Nate would ask

“No, I’m happy I listened to him. The evening we married, he took me to the garden where we had danced on our second date. He had asked to decorate the place with lights and everything. Then we had a dance, just the two of us. I got to wear my pink dress then.” His Grandma patted his shoulder, “A good partner will make life feel much lighter, but we are who we attract…if you want someone light, you’ve gotta be light.”

And that’s what Grandpa did. Nate saw in the days she wore her signature silky dress, gliding across her home. The dress became an extension of her skin, a second organ to her. When it captured light as she danced in the living room, it gave her form a soft incandescent glow. In those days, she was the most incredible woman, and acted as such. Now, the lightness dimmed. His Grandma had shrunken since the last time he saw her. The frequency of hand washing and steaming the dress had increased over time, making it lose its shimmer slightly. The fabric draped across her frame in a clumsy little way, like injured skin falling off wrinkled flesh. Fading pink skin shedding and slipping off her shoulders, revealing a prominent collarbone that supported it. When the skin fully falls off, she wouldn’t be here to see it. Nate hoped that she wouldn’t have to see that, that she would die quickly if her body is no longer strong enough to support the dress.

“When did you get home? You’ve become quiet!”

He must have been very quiet that day. Even his smacking lips, dry from biting into blue popsicles from across the street, didn’t alert the pair. Too quiet. He added a weightful force to each stomp as he walked along the road. He didn’t remember his Mom’s expression, but her silence spoke volumes. At least he thought it did. He was becoming like the silent type too, the type that people didn’t know what to make sense of, like this neglected park in the outskirts of a disjointed city.

Original Photo by unknown, on Pixabay

Plot blurb (working plot, expect surprises!)

Rivelo City is developing pretty fast, but not fast enough for Nathaniel Jackson. Being bullied in school, and dealing with the death of his father has made him had enough of what he sees as a wasting place. This changed completely when he met a dead girl and a fox at the abandoned park. As Nate begins to unravel the history of the park, why the girl haunts the forests within it, and the city as a whole, he starts to unravel the grief that he’s been carrying within himself too. This story will explore history, place, memory, and how community can be found in the most surprising places, if one takes the chance to embrace it.

Note from author (me!): I’m currently working on this novel. This idea was sparked by my long term dream of writing and completing novels coming to a head. I’ve completed short stories before (that end up being longer than average short stories because a lot of them end up being pages long), and I’ve started novels, but I never got to finish them. Part of me gets excited, then I get lost in the plot details, then frustrated. So then I abandon the plot because I got lost in the plot! But the plot cannot plot if I’m not plotting to work on the plot (too much? okay moving on). But these are reoccurring thoughts that cross my mind from time to time, and the nagging in my head just became a bit too overwhelming, so I had to act on it! Part of being a creative is understanding that the process is just as important as the art itself, no matter how bad the art ends up becoming. My writing might not be perfect , but I’m testing myself and my abilities in writing a novel. I plan to continue writing short stories and book reviews, but my goal is to post about one to three chapters of the book on a monthly basis. I hope that you’ll become a part of this creative process, no matter how it turns out.

Endless roads suspended above the ocean. They bear thousands of cars daily, and this particular afternoon was no exception. Vehicles dashed through roads, their tracks ironing and roughing their surface. One of these cars housed a driver still green behind the ears. Almost as if she were afraid of being found out, her eyes shifted through all her mirrors within seconds of each other. She gripped the wheel with sweaty hands, but her shaky legs betrayed her, as she would soon notice when she passed through the numerous stop signs littered throughout the city. But for the moment, she was sandwiched between her fellow drivers on the roads leading up to Baltimore. Poms wasn’t sure if it was the pollution or the heat, but the skyscrapers looked like glass from a distance. Blue, translucent glass that almost blended with the sky around it, if it weren’t for the glare from the glass.

Poms used to admire the crystalline skylines when she was younger and even greener. She remembered one particular morning when she was in the backseat on her way to the aquarium with her Mother. Through her job, her Mum had gotten free tickets to the aquarium and science center. For the first time in her life, Poms had seen dolphins and jellyfish with pearly skins. She saw seas of greens and skeletons of bygone dinosaurs. She saw the stars coming together to create striking constellations in a dark exhibit. She did all of this within the span of a couple of days. Her mother, steady and silent, watched her daughter eagerly taking pictures. She asked Poms to take simple pictures of her, and urged her to take a picture with her.

Portraits of her mum leaning against the window, and the image of them standing in front of a dinosaur’s jaw, are still saved on Poms’s phone, as with many other pictures she had taken over the span of those blissful days. She looks back on them, recalling how joyful she was to follow her mother’s wishes. About the times when life seemed a lot simpler, and the road trips were adventurous rather than stifling. In retrospect, everything seems like an adventure when you are in the backseat. You aren’t thinking about the consequences of your ventures–you have the person holding the wheels to think about that for you. Now, Poms felt the immense pressure of the journey ahead, now that she had the wheel in rigid hands.

With quivering legs, Poms made her way through suspended roads, managing to get into the city. The car began to shake violently, as if Poms’s fear was contagious. After making her way through potholes that make her shout, curves she barely managed to turn, and a truck blocking her entrance to the parking lot, she made it close to her destination. Close. She scrolled through her phone and clicked on a number.

“Hi Purple, I was wondering if I was in the right place.” Poms spoke clearly. At least she hoped she did. Over the years, she had polished her accent, making notes of the right intonations that would make her just palatable enough. Still, sometimes she would walk out of conversations with a throat dried and strained from the now unconscious act.

“Hi, Poms! So where are you?” A friendly voice answered.

Poms glanced at her car from across the road, which was parked in a gated lot. She tried to describe the view to the man on the phone.

“Oh you’re there! It’s okay, you’ll just need to walk on the sidewalk by the main road.”

Oh– close and yet so far. Poms waddled across the road, phone against her ear, until she found her destination– an entrance with a canopy as the man described.

Poms, relieved, spoke into the phone, “I think I’m here. Thank you so much for staying on the line.”

“Of course, I’ll see you soon.”

With a final thanks, Poms cut the phone. An elevator trip later, she was by the entrance to her next job interview. Her very first big girl job, potentially, too. She rang the bell to no response. She paced around the hallway, checking if there was another hidden entrance that she did not know of. She resisted the urge to call Purple again. For all intents and purposes, she wanted to be self-sufficient, and self sufficiency is a practice.

Jobs. Career. The rush of excitement and fear kept her up all night, wondering how she would be transformed by this new venture. Fantasies of a working Poms ran through her mind. This Poms would walk towards her cubicle, black coffee in hand. She’ll set the beverage down and settle into the drabby place. She’ll type things on her laptop, doing tasks that seem illegible, but there will be a nice paycheck at the end of it all. Most importantly, though, is that she’ll have no greens behind her ears. People will pass her on the street. They will see her cream button-up shirt, with dignified black pants and matching loafers tucked into pretty white socks. They would walk past her and think that she meant business. That she’s going somewhere to do something. Even if it wasn’t important, people will definitely think it is just by the sight of her alone. Like a real grown-up.

A real grownup, this is it. Poms, now sitting in the office, soothed her shivering legs by crossing them. The person who answered the door was unaware of anyone interviewing that day, and that terrified her.

“What are you here for?” The man asked softly

“Hi, I’m here for an interview for the Internship Position” Poms puffed her chest ever so slightly to prevent her black backpack from weighing her down.

“Who was this with?”

“Purple.”

“Ah,” the man glanced at towards the corridor ahead, one which Poms assumed led to the main office. “You can have a seat, I’ll get Purple.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course, I’ll be back shortly.”

The man marched to the corridor, away from Poms line of view. She sat down on one of the chairs, using the bag on her back to cushion her. After looking through the company website and numerous reviews about interviews here, she sat up straight and ran through multiple scenarios in her head. She had practiced for this interview days before. Confidence is key, remember they liked your resume. There’s something about you. If they won’t pick me, who will they pick? Remember, my name is Poms. My skills and capabilities will make me a perfect fit for this role. This is the perfect role for me, remember? Calm down, run through it again. My name is Poms…my skills and capacities will make me the perfect fit for this role. She recited soft affirmations and answers in an attempt to lift her spirits.

“Hi Poms!”

Poms jumped up to meet the face of the man that emerged from the hallway. He held kind brown eyes that crinkled with his friendly smile, making her feel at ease.

“Good afternoon.” Poms returned the smile.

“How are you? As you know I’m Purple.” He held out his hand. As the two exchanged handshakes, another man appeared from the hallway. “We will both be interviewing you today.”

“Hello I’m Teal,” the new guest greeted Poms with a handshake, after which he massaged his palms “Wow, it must be cold outside, huh?” Poms checked her own palms, flinching in surprise. Her palms were cold, piercingly so. As the pair led her past the office to the small conference room, Poms clenched and unclenched her fingers, wishing that she did so earlier. She made note that the goodbye handshakes would be better. The room was small, with warm brown walls and a table in the middle.

“You can have a seat,” Teal gestured to the seats surrounding the table. Poms sat down and placed her backpack on the floor. The two sat opposite to her.

“Before we begin, do you mind us recording this interview?” Purple asked.

“No, I do not.” Poms shook her head.

“Alright, let’s get started then. Although this is an interview, we want this to feel like casual conversation, there is no need to get nervous…” Purple began

Didn’t I hear this in the last interview…

“...So to start, we would like to know a bit more about you.”

With these magic words, the ping-ponging of conversation began. Questions were thrown at Poms from both men. As she answered she made sure to make eye contact with them to show that she’s engaged. Occasionally she would repeat their questions.

“You have a lot of skills we need…” Purple mentioned

A while later, Teal glanced at Poms’s resume “Your resume looks very good….”

The flow of conversation was only interrupted by Poms getting her book to take notes. Before she began transcribing Purple’s explanations she wrote her current potential score for the interview: 7/10

“And I want to refine these skills,” Poms finished.

“...Yeah, because you’re so smart and well rounded.” Teal nodded.

Oh wait, was I being too boastful? Poms, perceiving the comment as sarcastic, felt herself wilting.

“...Tell us about a time you failed, and what did you do about it?” Purple asked.

Failure? Poms knew that this question would come up, but it still caught her off-guard. A time I’ve failed. She felt like she was failing and flailing around through life at the moment. Hundreds of applications submitted and thousands rejected. Empty promises laced in emails talking about getting back to her with a decision. And many applications that never got out of the door, because Poms decided to not give herself the chance.

But she didn’t talk about this. She gave a simple answer about struggling in college. As soon as she finished, she gazed at her notebook blankly. Wrong answer–a wrong answer that exposed her inexperience. She updated her score, adding a little note: 6/10, I’m not sure if I’m getting this job.

“Okay, now we are going through a scenario,” Purple folded his hands.

“Alright,” Poms braced herself for the moment.

“Okay, so we work with a lot of people, and we deal with different things,” Purple explained “I’m going to pretend to be a client that is waiting on a follow up on their case, and Teal is the coworker in charge of that case. You would talk to me as if I’m the client, then remind Teal about the case. Are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

She was not ready. Purple pretended to be a disgruntled client with questions and complaints that Poms couldn’t respond to. “Please, can we start again?”

“Of course, whenever you’re ready to start over.”

She placed her hand over her chest, taking a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

Purple resumed his role as a disgruntled client. His voice was calm, but the tirade of words and sentences about not wanting to work with the organization made it clear that this person was very upset. Poms switched to a more apologetic tone, thinking that it might placate this fictitious person. When talking to Teal, she stumbled over her words, her body curling away.

As she finished, Purple typed a few things down. “So starting off with the good part. It was nice that you were empathic and thought about the client, but I hoped to see more firmness from you. We also expected you to ask more follow up questions to get a better sense of the issue.”

Poms could only thank him for his feedback and ask about what questions they expected to hear from her. Purple responded, but the word firmness circled around Poms’s mind as she wrote in her notepad. The firmness she needed to steady her legs and keep eyes focused. If she had such assertiveness, she would’ve sped past the truck blocking the road on the way to the interview, even if at the risk of being on the wrong lane. She thought that she had built that confidence in isolation, but it seemed like she had failed the test yet again.

“Thank you,” Poms looked up. “What if I said something like this?” She recited a response.

Purple paused “Well, there really isn’t an exact script…every situation is different, so the best response also has to be different, right? You can only know when you’re in it.”

“Ah yes,” Poms scribbled something below the updated score: 2/10, I’m not getting this job…

The conversation continued, but something had changed. Teal, who had been looking up from time to time, had his eyes glued on the screen, silent. Purple seemed to be going over information out of courtesy rather than interest. Poms hoped that her face didn’t betray how she was feeling inside.

“Now, do you have any questions for us?”

“Yes, what is the daily life of an intern like here?”

Purple explained. Poms wrote. First question covered.

“Is there anything you need to know about me or my resume to better assess my fit for the role?”

Purple glanced at Teal. The man returned his gaze, looking at his laptop. “Nope, I’ve gotten all that I needed from this.”

Purple held up a copy of Pom’s resume. “Yeah, everything is great, the only thing that I felt was a gap was why you applied for this position with no experience in the field.”

Now’s my chance to explain and end on a good note. Poms sat up and explained her position: she had taken courses and had transferable skills. She spoke in a way she thought was assertive but reassuring, but after she finished Purple face shifted to concern “I want to say I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to diminish your accomplishments, but apart from that it’s good, and I’m sure that no matter where you go, you’re guaranteed to do well.”

No matter where I go… Poms gulped her tears down. “Thank you, I wanted to explain myself and add a bit more context, so I apologize if it came off the wrong way…my last question is about next steps.”

She didn’t remember much after that. Did she shake their hands afterwards? Poms wasn’t sure, but she remembered hearing words coming out of Purple’s mouth. She did manage to say goodbyes as the two led her out of the office. She mechanically retraced her steps back into the lot. She didn’t remember much, only that she had updated her score on her notepad: 0/10. She cried shortly thereafter in the car.

She didn’t remember how long she sobbed, but time is unforgiving. The sky had already turned a nice orange hue, and she knew she needed to go home. She missed her path yet again, facing the ordeal of impatient drivers, construction sites, and confusing GPS directions. A city draped with numerous traffic lights that didn’t deter drivers from speeding. Their eyes all fixed on their next destination, avoiding contact with the people sitting and stumbling across the roadside. At least that’s what Poms did. It was only by circumstance that she wasn’t in that position, and it could only take a series more to put her in that predicament. A bustling city with contradictions, but would she know about it– she could barely navigate it that day.

After narrowingly making it out of an exit lane that would have led her to New York, she was finally on her way home. Her car no longer shivered, and she could feel her body slowly relaxing. Remnants of yesterday’s downpour coated the lanes. They mirrored the sunset’s glare back to view, giving Poms the impression that she was driving on golden roads. She wondered what the view behind her looked like. Were the blue glassy buildings now golden from the distance, with orange sunsets to envelope them? She also wondered how she was ever born in such a city, but never seemed to adopt some of her traits.

She lay down that night, pondering the issue. The city required assertiveness, quickness, and decisiveness, qualities that she doesn’t seem to possess. But since she was born in the midst of M. Baltimore, she believed that she carried a bit of energy in her, even if it was just a little bit, but when will a little bit become much? When will something so small become so consuming that other people will see it, too? And would it be enough to wash the greens off her ears eventually?

Poms rolled over. Maybe there’s no script for that either.

The ticking tock coaxed her to sleep. She had all of tomorrow to think about this, but time will tell. Although it was unforgiving, it always seemed to tell, at least.

This one is a bit of a read, so if you made it here, thank you so much! The names of the characters are a bit confusing, but I wanted to try something different for this one. Feel free to leave feedback or any other thoughts in the comments. If you liked what you’ve read, please subscribe to see more pieces like this!

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My mind is strangely blank, clear, and sound.

That’s not it, though. I don’t think that’s it. My thoughts are running, anxious, and persistent – a river flowing from an endless, ambiguous ocean. Affirmations scribbled frantically down. Music turned on to max. Phone screen, scattered with endless information illuminated against a harsh midnight backdrop. Reminders repeated but barely fulfilled. They form piles of sandbags scattered along the shores- the borderline between composure and chaos. They constrain my thoughts forcefully. They guide the water smoothly. They soak up murky water, swelling up like balloons. They remind me that if I push harder, think smarter, do better, things will be fine. With every setback, new sandbags appear. Videos showing me how to be more charismatic, smile more, fix my eye bags, be healthier, fix me. They tell me promises of rewritten stories if- and only if- I amend something innately broken about myself. With every missed step, with every action I can’t take back, the sandbags keep piling up. I’ll be fine. I stare pridefully at my belly in the mirror. Even after hours of strategic fasting and extensive workouts, I hold, pull her back in. I’m so disciplined. I’ll reward myself with something nice tomorrow, because I’ll deserve it by then. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow. Think about tomorrow.

Morrow

Morrow

Morrow

Orrow

Or row row

Row row row orrow. I quietly repeat the series of words softly.

Tap tap tap.

Rhythmic steps lead me to the bathroom. I stare at the off-white ceiling. Something is making noises again. I shrug it off, still mouthing the beats of my new nonsensical patterns. I focus on my stomach. Don’t look up, don’t look at your face. Maybe tomorrow orrow orrow. Maybe I’ll look at my face tomorrow, when everything will be fine.

Taptap taptaptap tap tap

I reach out for a white box and turn it open. Encased inside are pale blue beans. I picked one and popped it in my mouth. It dissipated as I jammed silicone into my ears. With that, I trudge to the bedroom and resign into my covers. A wonderful procedure. It has worked before, and it will work again. I let the blue pill soothe me. Comfort me to sleep.

Morrow, orrow orrow.

I want to dream about tomorrow orrow orrrow

Mind, so blank and clear and sound

Foggy vivid sleeping routine

Make me replenished

For tomorrow orrow orrow

Orrrooowww orrr orrr or ro r

Oooooo rrrr

Orrrr morrow orrow

oooorr orrrow orrrow orrow

Make me replenished and whole for Tomor-

CREAK

I jump up. The noises upstairs are more overwhelming than ever. It didn’t work yet again

Tap taptap tap tap tap taptapatp

Stop it. It will be fine. Repetition is key. If I repeat these motions enough, with more precision, more passion. More. Then, I could be fine. The sandbags are inflating. The water is overtaking. It is sumberging the colorful gravels of instructions and emotions encased inside each bag.

Tap tap tap taptap creak creak creak

I curl up into a ball, fighting the urge to scream. Each gravel is swelling up into translucent balls, bulging against their bags. This shouldn’t be happening. I’ll be fine. I could be fine. I should be fine.

Tap creak tap tap taptap creak

I’ll be fine. Think about tomorrow orrow morrow. Tomorrow, everything will be fine. I am fi-

BOOM

The sandbags explode along with all their contents. The gravels, once solid, have taken on shades of brilliant liquids. With the bags gone, the stream transforms into a flood. The sandbags and their contents, remnants of control, join the frenzy, transforming the flood into a series of colors. I catch shades of red, blue, green, black, purple, pink, brown, white, orange. They flash and disappear. The torrent charges through my body. My blood, bones, heart, and muscles pulse with her energy. When will it end? When will tomorrow come? The flood thrust through the corners and edges of my form. My feet writhe. I toss and turn. With hands over my head, I scream. Tomorrow is not going to come; tomorrow will still be the same. I am not fine.

The water settles. As she rests, she freezes out, making my form white crystal. As I turn, the colors I saw during the storm shine back at me. I’ve become crystal. I rush over to the window and open it. Cool air greets me.

Tap tap tap taptaptap

A moment. The bathroom still had its white ceiling. The container with the blue beans and silicone plugs lay on the counter. Sunlight crept its way through an open window, casting her light over ruffled bedsheets.

Tomorrow is here now.

I open my eyes, lethargic but alert. My mind is strangely blank, clear, and sound. I’m sitting upright on a wooden chair, but it feels like I woke up from a dream. The air carries a familiar silence. Words resting on sheets of paper greet me at the table. A pen sits waiting.

I pick it up.

Thank you for reading. This feels very vulnerable to share, and I don’t have other eyes to check over this piece, so there could be some things that might not make much sense, but I can guarantee you that I tried my very best. If you’d like what you’ve read, I encourage you to subscribe. It’s free, and you get to see weekly work from none other than me. Again, thank you so much for reading, and please do not hesitate to leave feedback (or any other thoughts) in the comments!

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Sweat glistened down over wrinkling forehead- each salty tear triggered pangs sharp enough to keep me barely awake. I flipped through pages of a novel, my eyes glazing over her characters, failing to piece them together. I placed the open book to the side, curling up to the other end of the car. I squinted at the car’s starter. The sun’s glare bounced off its silver lining. After a few more heaves, I grabbed the keys and leaped to the front of the car. I jammed the keys to its lock and with a twist brought the vehicle to life. My hands desperately toggled buttons to switch on the air conditioning and close all the windows, trapping the cool air being created. My coughing a few minutes later betrayed my mistake- the coolness of the AC couldn’t pacify stagnant hot air. I was trapped within the car’s confines now. Sharp breath in. Gasp it out. This time, I rolled down only the window closest to me. Completely.

Then it tickled past my cheeks, the cool, fresh air from outside. For several moments, I sat uncertain. Eventually, the air coaxed me to step outside.

The heat that was once oppressive suddenly felt softer. In the car, I sat concealed away from torrid sun, only to now embrace her. My hands stretched out to her as plants reaching out to its source, my fingers fanning out in bloom. I strolled around the parking lot, hearing the sermon bellowing in a the distance. Once I was satisfied with the amount of laps I had taken, I begrudging nestled back into the car. Time seemed to pass by quicker after my interaction with the outside though. Reading the book still felt like a hazy memory, but the words jumped out faster. The book, like a long time friend, understood that my lack of vibrant enthusiasm didn’t mean a lack of complete disinterest. A rattle pulled me out of the book’s one sided conversation. A woman donned with traditional attire opened the front passenger’s door and mounted into the car.

“Are we leaving now?” My voice was laced with resignation.

“Yes oh,” My Mom stated as if it was a matter of fact, but her tone held traces of uncertainty. The same uncertainty that rings when she talks about places she plans on going but never gets back around to it.

I nodded my head. “I’ll be going to the bathroom.”

“What about when your Dad comes?” She looked over.

“I’ll be quick.” Taking her silence as acceptance, I rushed out of the car. I passed by the stream of people making their exodus from the church, studying the elaborate attires they wore. A woman sauntering in a baroque green gown, men striding with neatly pressed suits, a girl running in a pastel pink dress. Some took pictures. Many, anticipating traffic, dashed into their cars. The burst of colors were beautiful, yet so overwhelming. This was expected however, as this was how people were supposed to dress up for church.

I knew this rule more than anyone. My parents bought my sisters and I series of colorful clothes to wear, commanding nothing less than uncrumpled linens, freshly shined shoes, brushed up cornrows, and meek demeanors. Once, when one sister refused to give the other her dress, the defiant sister had been punished. We drove to church while she was forced to stand outside the house. My sister and I watched her lonely figure fade into the distance, then stared at the empty seat where she should’ve been. We felt guilty, as if we were the ones that did it to her.

From that moment, we never fought about dresses again. A silent agreement that any items, even if clothing, can never be a catalyst for our collective pain. But all the dresses seemed to weigh heavier on me, and with each step in them, I could feel myself sinking. Sinking from the intensity of eyes trained on me.

I had made a foolish sin of wearing a dress that exposed my darkened knees once. Naively, I went to church, running my fingers through her rough texture, her grassy and rosy patterns reminding me of flower bushes. The dress, once blossoming in the warm refuge of our bedroom, withered under the rush of cold air conditioning and the hardened glare of the Sunday school teacher. I looked down at my knees, suddenly ashamed of their dark hue. I shielded them from view with my finger. Later, the teacher pulled me aside, admonishing me for wearing a dress that did not cover my knees. So, dressing up for church is a particularly heavy task. The way you dress is almost as important as how passionate you pray, so how dare you approach God like a sinner? But even now, as I adjust weeks old braids in the church’s bathroom, I wonder if this rule is true.

I always been a state of wondering. I’ve been wondering a lot and for a long time, but even now I wonder, oh how much I wonder. Shouldn’t the sermon feel powerful enough for people to linger even afterwards instead of taking pictures with their gowns and suits? How much I wonder. I don’t blame them though, I didn’t feel much during the sermon either. I haven’t been feeling much faith recently. In fact, during the first service, I had cried bitterly. Silent bitter tears. Crying to feeling connected to the Pastor’s words, but feeling so far away. My heart had already drifted so far away. After reciting goodness, I retreated into the car disjointed, unwilling to listen to the second service. While my parents stood steadfast, I laid in the car- cooking myself alive. Such is one of life’s many wonders.

I brushed down my braids a few more times and walked back, worried to keep my parents waiting. My Dad arrived a few minutes after I did, balancing a tinfoil plate and a paper bag. “They gave us some food.” he announced proudly, dropping it next to me, and walking to the driver’s seat.

“Let me have it.” My Mom called out to me. She retrieved it from my fingers and investigated its contents as we drove away from the parking lot, making our way to another destination of their choosing.

“Amber, would you like a piece of food?” She asked

“Thank you Nne, but I’m not hungry right now.”

“I’ll have a piece.” Dad quickly glanced at the food.

As the couple pinched up pieces of rice and chicken, I leaned against the window, its surface warming my right cheek. The car finally felt cooler now, but there was something about the air outside that made me wonder…

I personally have a complicated relationship with rain. I have yet to outgrow my fear of lightning, either. I hate running through the rain. I remember running back to the library to shelter from a sudden shower- the droplets clung to my clothes like lost children, clouding my worn glasses. The water that dimmed my vision that day was nothing compared to the tears that rushed from my own eyes when I ran from an incoming storm. Surrounded by trees, my heart quickened and my brain kept reminding me that lightning were attracted to trees.

So yes, I dislike rain, and I hate being wrapped in its midst, but at the same time, I love it. I love hearing each droplets, small patters against glass windows, thousands creating resounding rhythms; forming threadlike streams. These streams ending in circular bodies- each succeeding raindrop pushing it’s predecessor further down the windows edge. The storm leaves reflecting puddles and damp grass in its wake. Occasionally, the rainbow streaks cast across the sky, reminding me that rain was once there. There was a moment were it was raining, but there were no dark clouds in sight. The sun’s rays and the raindrops bounce against the windows simultaneously. I leave the window still and open the door, leaving my shelter and entering warm damp abyss.

With arms open and eyes shut, I let nature’s children envelope me. They can cling to me as much as they’d like. They embrace me , me cleansing parts of myself I didn’t realize were broken, until I’m reborn anew. Till I rebecome me.

In the distant golden horizon, a rainbow glimmers into life.

Most of my pieces will be rough around the edges, so they might be almost as messy as life can be. However, I do hope you can also find beauty in them, in the way life often shows us through its mess, too. Thank you. Take all the time you need here.

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