Scribblings on Slumbercloud9

Art is both an escape and an attempt to capture that freedom and turn it into a tangible reality. 

All around me I see lost eyes staring into space, desperately waiting for something catch their attention. Mouths looking for ears to talk to. Lips forced to curve themselves into smiles whilst playing music that doesn't stir the soul to a crowd of strangers with no real purpose or talent of aesthetic appreciation. Lights, camera, action, music, marionettes- Show time.

I forget  birthdays and names  streets and lanes  powdered faces  pink laces  colors and shades  fancy hairdos and fish braids. I forget  texts messages exchanged  deranged  9:47pm and blue ticks  cum, boobs and dicks How are you? I'm well. What are you up to? Nothing much.  Where have you been? Here. 

We've grown up now. Is it okay to allow myself to feel pain now?  Because we have grown up. We can't hide behind our age, we aren't supposed to be teenage drama queens anymore. Love always hits us in the face, as hard as it did before. We think we have learned to fall and then balance but just as you love changes, pain does too. Pain doesn't fall out of your body through your tears, it hits the walls of your skin vehemently, struggles to find an outlet. Sometimes tear glands don't work. When you see a picture of the one you love in the arms of another, when you wake up in the middle of the night to check your god forsaken phone with the hope to see their name on your display, when you smell the rain that surprised you pleasantly in the hot summer only to remind you that it feels just like last year when you were in their arms, in the same balcony. Your skin tingles outside, your organs tangle inside. And here I am standing in my bathroom, looking at the moon, liste

"I'm sure waking up to find no one around you isn't as bad as trying to hug yourself in remembrance of your lover's embrace at dawn. It's not the days that scare me, it's the nights: nights that are romanticized by intellectuals and millions in the past, nights that are supposed to rain fairy dust on your heads and turn your afro into shimmering silk, pumpkins into carriages, people into characters out of mystic tales, mice into beautiful white horses; when the moonlight is dissected by the mosquito nets that are supposed to protect your childhood fantasies that can no longer dazzle you, and you can only pitifully only identify with the shadows that the pattern of the net creates and not the magic of light. You're entangled between binaries; hope and pragmatism, irrational optimism and heart wrenching reality, night and day. All you can do to soothe yourself is breathe in and out the veracity of your life but nothing fills in the void that occupies your ex

We are looking for nothing but reflections of ourselves in the people we choose to love.

Somewhere between solving the mystery of a shore without a name And the reflection of our smiles on the skin of the sea,  the golden dust sprinkled itself on us  the moment we realized we were floating;  drifting in and out of reverie... I didn't know four seconds could last so long. 

I'm scared  of having your heart stop beating  I'm scared of  the people you're meeting  I'm scared of the alcohol drowning you  I'm scared of the things you might do  I'm scared  of broken glass pins penetrating your skin  I'm scared  of your beautiful body collapsing in the bin  I'm scared  of the bruises on my cheeks  of the cement collecting besides my door I'm scared  of torn post-it notes I'm scared  of echos of these walls  and the whispers of the neighbors outside  I'm scared  of the whiskey spilling on my mind  I'm scared  I'm the reason of your ruin We used to be  young and wise  now we're old and we are withering apart  I don't want to be the reason.  I don't want to smoke out my insecurities,  or know how I'm smoking I don't want anyone to fix me.  I cannot expect you to heal me  Our lives are not movies It's not fair

There is no need for conversation in this house; your words will bounce around the walls  and then they'll echo in the basement and come creeping into my ears  just when I hit the bed  or when the sunlight hits my eyes  but your words,  they will linger when I open my eyes or when I'm walking to the metro station, they'll scribble themselves on the last page of my notebooks  or fit themselves in between the songs I listen to while I travel to and fro the same routes  till I hit the bed again.