Dear Love of Old

You were all to me, dear love of old. For you, my smile pined and isle of happiness, and I still can't contemplate why I said good-bye. Watching you part on that September Saturday left me in a blissful ignorance of the unknown, which now sees us parted by miles beyond reach, beyond touch. Dear beautiful smile, I am reminded of the birds that skirted the river for fishes, and the boys that dived without caution. I remember the sour goat cheese sandwich we shared and the photos  I took as you glowed in the sun's shade. 

It has been time immemorial- it feels like it- and we have both sailed into separate corners with a lingering feeling to be each others sunflower. Whenever I behold your smile, my skin glows with warmth. My heart reminds me that simple things have lingered on to a great perhaps, but the truth is I still hold my simple breaths, wondering with what ifs and maybes. Summer has sailed with a spin of the seasons and it feels like we parted yesterday. I am surrounded by details that have lodged into the spaces and corners of my heart with hope.

Dear love interest, here I am with the colors of love painted in the crevices of my necks and cheeks. They have blushed in colors that don't exist. I am thinking about what to write you as I look fonder in to the avenues and alleys of my heart. I have heard whispers of your name and your hushed giggles on the many nights before my eyes shut. Dear love interest 

Sincerely Yours

I am officially taking a break from this blog to try something new.
in the mean time check out my other blog Sincerely Yours

The Journey

“Only good hearts that have never hurt can make you happy” Grandma Ellison words resounded with conviction. "But who exactly has a good heart?" thought Delia, looking at her 70 yearold grandmother with mixed feelings. "People don't walk around with an open chest, Naana." She knew Grandma Ellison was speaking the truth, but she didn't understand it. The royal old lady was blatantly honest, and nothing deterred her from it. She was the king's most trusted counsel, and his other advisers hated her. Secrets that ended up within the walls of her ears, we uttered with no discretion. None whatsoever. “I am too old to lie.” She’d often say. Delia had been discussing her terrible luck with love, and Grandma's ears were weary of her issues. Her husband had ruined her sanity with an adulterous affair. For weeks she had been laboring under very poignant sorrow and contemplating whether or not to kill him. Delia was not new to this, however, it seemed nearly unbearable to have him killed.

"I wonder why the men choose to marry you in the first place."Grandma uttered, turning to the window where it seemed more peaceful.

"I'm a princess. Everyone wants to marry me." She responded. 

"Well, don't forget what happened with your two ex-husbands. We both know their deaths could have been avoided" Grandma's eyes were looking out into the meadow.

She felt calmed by the beauty of the flowers and how they had blossomed. Delia paused and recalled how she had diabolically ended the lives two men she had suspected of adultery. It was a sad moment, but brief. "As a princess, I am absolved of any acts of vengeance." said Delia, her hands caressing the bowl of grapes on the table. "...But it was not vengeance, Delia. It was murder."  replied Grandma,  "...there is nothing pleasing about taking a life." Her words reckoned with Delia's logic. 

"They deserved it." Delia argued

"Yes. Maybe. But it is still wrong. And we both know you lost more than a husband that day."

"Elise shouldn't have intervened. She should have kept her opinions to herself." Delia was simmering with anger.

“Why can’t you be like your her?” Grandma Ellison asked. 

“The kingdom would be torpid if we were all like my sister.” She answered. 

"...But it would have been a better kingdom. Now she's in exile and you are here pondering whether or not to kill your  third husband." Grandma Ellison spoke her last. Looking at Delia, she missed Elise and her kind heart.

“So you have decided…?” Grandma asked. 

Delia nodded. Silently, she savored the pleasure, and thrill of watching Collins hang for his affair. It would be slow, bitter, and she would enjoy each moment of it. Time

Grandma Ellison bore a sad look as Delia smiled in delight. They both knew another murder was in transition. Death would pay Collin a visit soon.

Blueprint For Love: Date Me Please...

The young black beauty could not be bothered by the rampant comments about her color as she walked past the high school building. No, she couldn't. Her ears were near deaf at each step and her mind was lost in her own issues. Anthony, her friend, had asked her out on a first date and was waiting for an answer. She had near none, little feelings towards him but they were the kind she'd feel for her brother or distant cousin. She could at this point ascertain that it was not the kind relationships were built on. Anastasia walked briskly as the dark clouds formed together in the distant sky. Her hair could be ruined by any unpredictable rain and that was something she wanted to avoid. Although she felt responsible for Anthony's current state of mind, she was not going to give in out of pity. The thought of refusing him had crossed and circled back in her mind several times that afternoon but she was incessantly reminded that saying no would make Anthony try harder. And she didn't need more attention and pressure. It is human nature to want what one can't have. When the first rain drops reached her glass windows, Anastasia had dished out her leftovers from the previous night, and changed into something warm. She warmed it in the microwave and enjoyed her early lunch as the rains had their way. 

The rains had ruined my day, and my clothes. I was soaked and somehow did not feel the need to run home. I loved the rain. It was one of my favorite things about nature. Rains were blessings to me, although I was starting to think that I had pampered them too much. Nothing gave me solace like the rain. Summer rains were the best, unpredictable but had impeccable timing. I walked back to the house in such style and elegance feeling proud that I had not succumbed to the need to run. I was already soaked in rain and I had nothing else to prove. Fortunately, my notes were tucked in the warm spaces of my bag. I set them on my table and dashed to the bathroom for a quick shower. My day had come to an abrupt end. Jennifer had stopped calling. She had given up, and I applauded  her effort to recoil into my life, but my fences had a no -entry policy.

The elevator doors parted slowly. He stepped out on the tiled floor and pressed the doorbell. Anastasia heard the doorbell rang but she refused to answer. "Hold on!" Deloris shouted from her room. He made a second attempt at the doorbell and a third and a fourth. "I said hold on!" she screamed from the hall. When she finally opened the door for the young man who was fashionably handsome and unbelievably calm, her anger dissolved into sheer surprise. He smiled at her. "Did you come to see me?" Deloris asked as a smile creased her face. "No, I came to see Anastasia." He answered. "Please, is she in?" Deloris welcomed him in. "That's her room." She said

Blueprint For Love: Carre Noir

The crescent moon hung low in the west under scattered low racing clouds, the stars twinkled wildly in the gusty wind, and the night sailed on with more to be enjoyed. I had walked about a mile that night, my feet wiggled at each step, but I was determined to reach home before the streets attained unsafe status. It was not rocket science. I knew these Arab streets had nothing good to offer during the late hours of the night. My phone rang again; fourth time that night. This time the caller ID read, 'Unknown'. I was almost sure that it was a mistake traveling all those miles to see her. I answered. It was Jennifer. "Alfred, thank God!" She sounded relieved upon hearing my voice. “Where on earth are you?” I ended the call and savored the frustration in her voice. At this point, my feigned hatred for Jennifer was almost climatic. When I finally reached my apartment and pulled out my phone, I savored Jennifer's ten missed calls and finally turned the phone off. I loved having that much power. It was diabolical and inhumane but I was never the forgiving type and sentiments like compassion had no place in my heart. It failed at mixing well with my emotions.

Le Cafe Noir stood in a left corner, a couple of meters away from the first roundabout about a quarter  of a mile from the train station. It was home to some of the caffeine addicts in the neighborhood and housed the usual late night soirees. I swung the heavy doors open and took a seat. It was near half full with average smokers who appeared like they were discussing pertinent issues. It was fairly quiet and the apparent European ambiance was rewarding as the entire street was right before my eyes. As usual, I placed an order for a hot cafe au lait. In the minutes before the coffee arrived, my mind had somewhat placed an image to the many words I had received from my editor. She sounded displeased and indicated clearly that my words were somewhat archaic. By the time the coffee arrived, I had settled on not looking up each of the words she had sent. The touch of the first sip on my tongue felt exhilarating. My craving had finally met instant satisfaction and I breathed slowly as the vapor dissolved into the warm air. The streets were slowly easing into a chaotic zone as the time slipped by. I began to write the opening scene for the play, but my thoughts were discombobulated and the noise from the cars and music shops which surrounded the cafe unnerved me. I needed serenity and there was only one place I could find it at this time of the day. I closed my notepad, left the money on the table with a tip and marched outside. The dry September air felt liberating and I was relieved that for the first time in many months, I had a drama free day. "...Who said lying did not have benefits." I thought to myself and walked on.

In to Dust

I descend in to details of this chaotic, flamboyant milestone, and somehow a greater number of things that have not satisfied me like the rains do the dry season. Maybe, one day I will evince symptoms of patience, and adjust the expectations that have been held up in the morbid jungles of my mind. I am pouring with rains of sadness, and restless in my movements, often a solitary wanderer in the company of men. I wish I were bold enough to be myself, and not change so often that I lost track of who I were, and my place in this world. I remind myself of all the hellos I restrained on the channels of my lips, because fear had propelled me to think that people were cruel; in the many ways that love was kind. I stayed in the dark corners of nowhere without hope, without warmth. 

Dear me of an immediate past era, you were strong, handling each challenge with grace, as life gambled your emotions against thistles and thorns. I am proud of you, and whom you have ascended. When you were nine, you descended in the scale of what is termed gentility – an ideal that was entirely novel to you. Your innocence was robbed by a woman who was suppose to, in some way, care for your safety in the neighborhood. I felt your courage sublime in the spaces of rejection, bursting with a million questions. You have always been brave. During the dread reign of pain in your heart, you forgot what it meant be loved. You towered walls around your broken heart. While I still regard your bravery, and more especially the nimbleness of your heart, I found it sad; because it became a ghost town where dead love thrived- a place where good things went to die.

I am now growing in years, and have- since the last time we talked,- understood your childhood in the many times that I have been an adult: you were intelligent, and your brilliance was always questioned by your hesitation to trust your instincts. You were ambitious of signalling your abdication of the literary sceptre in the days of your adolescence to unbecoming the impetuous lover of a young girl who shared your interest and passion for an infamous television show. I wish you had traced her lips with soft kisses, and sweet nothings. Alas, cowardice gripped the best of you. In my first attempts at this composition, I found you a drawback of everything I wish my younger self would have been. But your splendor more enlightened than dazzled me. Chivalrous. Handsome. Fragile. Your world may have spun madly on in times of emotional loss, but your frailty never overtook your strength and composure.

Naturally, at my current age, I find my thirsts and itches oddly embraced by the rest of world. The gripping evidence that your mind has carved many future paths from the rubbish conceptions that held you captive in your shell, and the many sleepless labour nights behind books that were meant to lead you down a more scientific future.

Dear dream crusher, you are have a liberal heart, living outside the boxes of life and parental desires. You should have said what you mean to all the young girls you had affection for, and not deodorize it behind words that were meant to seduce and satiate.

Dear me of a past unknown to the many people who currently surround me, I miss you, and I miss us. I miss the solitude, and the adventurer in you. You used to explore, and discover things that filled you with joy. If you were looking at me now, you’d ask me what happened, and I would remind you of all the things you whispered into the wind when you were 9. My arms would couple around you and be proud of who you were- flaws and all. The chains of your past have dissolves in to the dust of your present and future. As it is well known that the “wise men” of the Messiah’s time came from the East, and as your father hailed from the East, it follows that you, dear friend of a past unknown to many, is a wise man; and if there has ever been a need for collateral proof, here you have it. As I retire this letter, I want you to know that you even a desert looks ravishing from a distance. Focus on yourself and what you long to achieve, you have what it takes to be all you can. Live on. And be yourself. Time tells tales. In the meantime, young gentleman live on the broad margin of the Proverbs of the once and only King Solomon.

Unspoken Written Letters

I can feel the anguish that courses through my body; the silence and the fear of the unknown that haunts me every night before I close my eyes. Sometimes in January, I feel the weight of who I am crushing me into extinction. Dear God, my path has dissolved in the darkness, your lamp is gone from me. I am like a deserted sailor. I am nothing. There are those mornings I wake up buried in a pool of tears. Mornings when my entire existence feels nothing but a waste of breath and time. Dear Constantine, I write to tell you that if you ever find me wandering the floating pathways of the afterlife, find Jesus. Tell Him I am sorry for all the good things I did not do. I wish I knew Him the way I knew my name. When I think about it now, my thoughts remain unspoken. Dear God, if I died today, would I be beautiful in your eyes. If I died today, what would you see? I know that my life would flash before my eyes when my heart eventually gives in to the grim reaper. I know that my life would become a story one day. A story that friends and enemies would tell their offspring; stories that may bring some to tears and others relief, after all only good things are said about you after you die. When the sun sailed across the sec sky, I looked yonder in to my past. The mistakes, and all the souls I hurt. I remember each faces. It never left me. Sometimes in January, my life is enshrouded in grief, guilt and fear. Dear Constantine, remind me that hell is real. Let if fuel my actions. Never let me forget. Remind me that I shall account for this temporary loan called life with interest. I wander in an ocean of doubt,whether joy will ever find me. Hope is dead. I killed her before she could ruin me with expectations. All that is left is me. I wish my skin could feel the tingling caresses of many blades. I need to feel. Love is lost. Time has ebbed away and I am comforted with end of everything. It's near. Dear Constantine, they said Jesus will be here soon, and I am not enough, barely ready. I am still crawling because my faith is lost. I think He doesn't like me much. Why did His father make me this way, Constantine? Why? I am sad all the time. My well of inspiration has dried up and I feel nothing. Where is God in my life? Am I still His? I feel like an outcast who has been abandoned to a God who doesn't want Him. Dear God, do you still love me? Do you still love people like me? My love for you has dried up in this chaos and in your silence, the shadows of this storm consume me the way the night fog consumes a mountain. Dear Constantine, my mind is blind and my eyes are useless. In my heart, the light flickers into darkness. I am broken. I am lost. It is better to be true than to be in denial. There is nothing here. Nothing!

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