There Is Something Out There

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There was an invitation into a new world lingering in the midst of her thoughts. Hidden pieces of new beginnings were showing themselves whenever she peaked through the cracks in her patience. There were clues scattered across the maps on her bedroom wall, maps on her bedroom floor showed her she could have the whole world at her feet. Somewhere outside the clean cut edges of her perfect life an adventure was calling out her name. The tall walls that staved off want grew into shades of grey that teased her wanting curiosity, a prison of propriety.

At first the fear took her by surprise, it unsettled her palate, she couldn’t swallow the notion of breaking the status quo. Before the outbreak of wanderlust, there was never a good enough reason to distrust the comforts she had come to know. Fine dining and freedom to spend, vacationing in the summer, five star retreats to hidden corners of the country. The world was gift wrapped for her personal consumption, yet every bite of the tailored dream failed to feed her appetite for living.

Away from the sequined dream, maybe she could drape herself in memories. She could trade the tapered heels, made for pedicured toes, for broad roads that didn’t fight her toes for comfort. The souls of her feet could feel the virgin trails of tomorrow that couldn’t care less for the latest shade of acceptance she’d painted on. She could learn that there is  plenty of room for her curious feet to stretch themselves out into undiscovered pieces of paradise. Maybe, just maybe,  she wouldn’t have to starve her spirit to squeeze into each seasons picture of beauty. Maybe she could eat her fill and feel no shame in feeding her heart.

Folding pieces of her life into her carry on luggage was an exercise in strength. Peeling through  the contents of her chest of drawers was a stark reminder of the world she was leaving behind. Leafing through her closet, weeding out outfit after outfit that would never feel at home away from the runways of her old life was enough to shake her ease. Weighing up time spent building this old life to the immediacy of its disappearance was enough to lead her to question the decision.

“What will they say?” She thought “They will call me crazy.”

She folded her last fabric of worry away and hoisted her enthusiasm onto her shoulders. She waved her way into her new adventure eager to learn her preferred shades of paradise. The world stretches itself wide enough to show her new ways to wear the emotions she thought she knew, new ways to wear her smile and new ways to fill the walk in closets of her mind with experiences tailored to her, no one size fits all when no mannequin can match the shape of your comfort. The set menus of luxury are gone now, she has the power to tailor her dining experience, feeding her heart and nourishing that organs that sprout the fruits of her truest intention. She was foolish to have doubted the calls to adventure.

 

The truth is that no dream, watered down by the trickling whispers of the crowd, will touch your lips with the sweetness once heavy in its touch. Once the notion ripens at the branches of your heart, sample its flesh unashamedly and allow your tongue to speak honestly of the sweetness there. You’ve pinned your smiles on the sleeves of others for long enough, how often will a round of applause be the sole reason your see fit to smile. You have enough living inside your heart to live twice over before waking up to a life spent. Don’t hurry to raise walls that slight the sight of sunsets and call it safety. Quiet resentment isn’t an acquired taste, flavour your soul accordingly.

Are you ready for your call adventure?

 

Blissful Nomad

 

 

 

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Someday

 

Dear Someday,

I hope this letter reaches you. I meant to tell you all this in person but something came up, as it always does. I’m sorry. I promise, Someday, well meet.

I always talk about you. I think your name has stained my lips with a  promise and  its made for colourful conversations. I talk about you with my friends, with my family, I even find myself talking to complete strangers about you. I tell them about everything we have drawn up in those little dream books of ours, they seem to love you. The people around me haven’t been too impressed with some of my decisions lately, so its kind of a big deal that the like the sound of you. Heck, I really like the sound of you too, you make it sound so easy.

I often revisit those notes we drew up in the hours spent scheming in leu of work. At the top of one of the pages we started a list with “6am Wake up”. 6 am wake up, boy, I remember being as excited as you were when I wrote that down, it was powerful. 6am meant getting a jump start on any day, with everyday we would have had this full day to get things done. I think I must have slept with the laptop on that night, because the light from my screen tends to mess with my REM cycles, so I had to snooze a few of those 6am wake up calls. Dont worry Someday, Ill do it.

Its such a shame its not as easy as writing these things down and then just watching them happen. We could definitely be kicking back with a talk glass of something cold to celebrate our winnings. I mean, look at these lists, of course wed be well on our way to something major. Running a 40 minute 10K, entering a writing competition every month, training 3 times a week, eating well, meditating everyday, and reading at least 2 new books each month. Why wouldn’t that lead to greatness. Only if it was easy as writing it down and watching it happen.

When we talk about all the little things and all the big things that we could be doing, its like you were painting a fantasy. Asking me to just erase a whole bunch of stuff that’s been around me for so long that world looks fuzzy without them in it. You have the best intentions when you try to teach me about taking chances. The whole thing about missing 100% of the chances you don’t take is straight out of some Rich Dad Poor Dad speal, but sucks that it makes sense.

I know you aren’t as far away as I’d like to think sometimes. To some degree you scared me with your willingness to break the mold and walk where there wasn’t a road. I’ve stacked a lot future against your name, I guess its time I shouldered my share of the burden.

See you soon,

See you at Sunrise.

 

Yours

 

Blissful Nomad

 

Echoes of Hand Claps

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I tried to learn a story from you, something that could make sense of the smiles you have been sharing with the world. So we talked merrily in serious times until you opened up to me, opened a window into a room filled with laughter and music, you showed me your answers to my questions. Now it is clear, you are missing the fire of it all, the stage was once your home.

Your warm words are the lasting embers of what was vibrant and colourful to you once. Echoes of the brilliant you have made themselves known in your moments of revery. Time has a way of pretense that has fooled too many, too often. Its colorless folds, have a adopted a shadow to hide that moment in time from you, it has failed to deceive me, I hope it fails to hold those memories behind you. There is plenty theatre inside that beating heart.

In confidence you grew bolder in owning up to your brilliance. You let me listen to your tales of magic, when you would disappear from the constraints of the audience and find your true colour on the stages that made you wholesome in your talents. I can only drag you so far back into that moment before you lose me, before you find your wings and take to patches of that memory you have succeeded in keeping secret. I’m dancing to the echoes of a symphony of passion, a melody of a memory so potent it kills my bearings. To the watching eyes I’m too silly to be made of sense, to the moment, I’m a victim of truth.

The years haven’t been able to stifle the reverberation of that most precious time. Don’t lose the magic, because you have been led to believe that the mischief of the theatre is for people less serious than you ought to be now. Behind the closed doors of my own home I harmonize with those echoes you let me hear, hoping to find the child at play in this very serious place. I hope you can let me see that child at play again, I hope you can find that magic again, take to the stage once more.

Sunrise

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My early call to rise rings out at the same time ever morning, 5 am. Every morning, at 5 am, I rock myself out of a shallow sleep, gather the scattered pieces of my focus and brace myself, ready to face the budding day at its root. I loathed dawn for so long, returning to it only through necessity.

I recently found hidden value and beauty in those early hours. It wasn’t the way in which the horizon bled as the sun stalked the weakening night sky. It wasn’t the tranquil air, alive with a heady mix of possibility and bird song , it was something different. It was the way it mediated my conflicting thoughts and gave my hope a backbone, the way it allowed my compass to settle to a true north, it allowed me to breath in the realisation that, like that rising sun, coming from everywhere, to embrace everything, I have to go far from comfort to pierce the blackness.

My eyes are drawn to the morning sun, with envy and curiosity. When 5 am arrives, I rise to chase a dream.

 

SUNRISE

As your golden arcs dissolve the night, I wonder where you’ve been.

you trace the distance silhouettes with ribbons of foreign fire.

Fermenting the swollen shadows by imposing your rosy sheen,

as your golden arcs dissolve the night, I wonder where you’ve been.

I’ve been tested by dawns return, the burn of an auburn, keen

to unfold the day, invoke a steam to power our souls desire.

With your golden arcs dissolving night, I wonder where you’ve been,

you trace the distance silhouettes with ribbons of foreign fire.

–  Triolet

(c) Saili Katebe