On Remembering Life

african-hands-around-fire

It’s started to sound impossibly vague.

“Act normal!”

A fatigued cape that hang low to the floor, collecting dust as he walked around. Weighed down by this cloak tailored by the men and women who had lost the spectrum of their childish enjoyment, eager to fight the cold of a world without play. It had become dangerous to shut his eyes and run free, to forget the turnstiles and painted borders. The threat of losing his footing and falling naked in all his humanness was very real.

“Act Normal!!” They said

He had started to wear his frown comfortably. It was no longer painful to his cheeks to keep them pinned to the scaffold of normalcy. It required no effort to appease his need for mischief when the little voices inside his heart regurgitated an age old song that accompanied his finest memories.  I’m sure he had forgotten how high his lips would leap as his hands would reach for the fruits that teased his gaze, beckoning him through the over hanging leaves, blades of sunlight gifting a spotlight to a hiding place in the tallest branches of his curiosity. It was in the throes of play that he learned the value of a strong hang shake. Now a mere shadow of that grip that kept him hoisted in the swaying branches of his youth, he reaches out his palm to his fellow man with practiced smiles, climbing deeper into the frost..

He learned to walk in fine shoes, toes pined together in leather points, a world away from the freedom of the earth on the soles of his feet. The neck that crafted the songs that lit up the night and mirrored the campfire, had now been tied down by the perfect knot, ready to walk into the empty rooms filled with hollow promises, muted by time. “This is the making of a man,” they told him. He swallowed this medicine as he lashed another layer of normalcy over his shoulders, hiding a horror story of loss beneath the sharp lapel of his double breasted jacket.

Parchments marked by learned men gave him permission to impose his knowledge on the world, now they know he knows.Before he had earned their approval, his words were open to criticism and disbelief. What has been lived and not written was counterfeit in worth to them, they needed proof.

His Grandfathers grey hairs and speckled eyes warmed themselves over the fire as he talked about the worlds he remembered. He didn’t fill his tattered bag with papers to persuade his attention, father time had written enough in the groves in his cheeks to speak volumes, the hardened skin on his palms were always reminder enough that he wrestled his own truth on his pilgrimage into wisdom. The sun sets he had seen  colored his life with hate, with love, with pain, with joy. Even as his mind failed him, his heart was the last to sing this mans song.

Sometimes he’d gift him with yams tilled from the pocket of earth he had nursed for years. They would eat together as his grandfather walked him through stories he had heard as a boy, stories he had lived as a man and the songs her knew that banished the rain. They were the motifs that returned to him time and time again, as compass points, guiding him while he wondered out of the wily maze of childhood.

His grandfather has passed away a few summers back, now the stories that lit those fires are only conjured into the air sparingly. Returning to the land of the living after the sky light was low and the taste of life returned to his mouth once the sterile air of fiscal responsibility lost the power to numb his tongue. His eyes would tear at the punchlines of old jokes that were the sweet nut fleshed out by anecdotes of the campfire. These memories were survived through quiet moments, the power of prayer allowed him to play pretend that man who nurtured his imagination was willing him forward into the fray.

He wondered what the man by campfire would make of this polished world. With no time for fire song, cold hearts are draping themselves in currency to stave off winter. When so much is changing, maybe he will understand. Maybe he would see the sense in bartering the things he had, for the life he had made.

He heard the echoes of the fire inside his longing for his teacher. He knew that his time to teach would come, and the parchments mounted on his walls, vouched for by learned men, would take a back seat to the story that father time will write into his flesh. The music in his heart and the color of his truth would be the fuel for budding flames. He would have to wrestle with his own truth on his pilgrimage into wisdom, till his pocket of this world and feed another hungry heart its fill of laughter and song. Write the notes that would steer their feet through the maze.

All roads will hopefully lead to home.

 

Forged in Fire

Moulded in the toughest moments, your decision will find its voice. There incisions will multiply in effect when applied with experience, that itself is earned through bad decision.
The spoils of war can be fickle if the battles were void of venture, sterile with stencils yet tested, with what ifs unanswered. Go bravely into battle.

I can question victors tirelessly and ask for the remedies, ask for the formulae to construct my own pulpit. If I only step into the well worn shoes of my professor I can feel the wear of there tread, none of that can show me the road. I must lace up my own, I must take to the path, remembering well, the cautions and failings at my own accord.

Champions aren’t made over night, watch for the scars under their armour. Those will be the most potent of teachers for the vigilant scholar. When you relish each battle, undiluted by the myths of completion, victory and effort will be separate but one.
I have never lost a battle. I have grappled with my maladjustments. I have learned the pitfalls of vigour with no vision, learn the impotence of vision with no vigour, I’ve learned the power of the mob, the mob is fickle.
The bellows are rampant and will not cater to your cadence, the furnace has no sympathy for the timidity. The anvil will spare you nothing, brace for the beat of the hammer. The mighty iron will mark time, crashing against the virgin or kneading out the impurities. The metronome of steel and grit will bound until your armour is finished, so then you can wage war on the horizon of your new beginnings.

Recognition

The silent cheers sicken me, my presence denied

I hope that scope and seasoning embellish my mind

Augment my arsenal and war my disdain

In the chambers of neigh Sayers let boredom sustain.

The lack of skill and timing tortures my dream

From ambition and destination I’m caught in between.

Maybe in time ill dance within that vector of fire

Filled with the gusto that adventure requires,

Then maybe my potential gains the respect I desire

And my Icy cold hide can shed its detest for the fire.

I think it betrays my vision how Idle I gaze

Stagnant, stood still, catching an eye full of days.

Observing life from distance, learning lack in an instant

The desire to breath burns me, yearning like and infant.

My presence on that pedestal is written in stars

I’m whittling, working hard till its filling my heart

Right in spirit, right in mind, right in body and soul

That with the fire in me the world will acknowledge my goal.