Moonlight Monologues

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Hi. I’m not sure what kind of  night you’re having because you look like you always do. I guess that’s part of being the moon; sitting in the middle of night,not saying much or doing much at all. Just looking. Waiting. Maybe for someone to look up and say ‘Hi’? I don’t know.

I feel like I can talk to you. Is it because of your kind phase? Sorry, bad moon joke.

Anyway, I wish I could cop a ride to where you are.  We could hang out. I’ll do most of the talking. Okay, all of it.
We’ll look down at this crazy world, watch as the pesky humanoids go about, trying to make sense of existence.

We’ll shake our heads at the clueless ones. We’ll want to shout and tell them to face reality. But we won’t. Reality will walk up to them and punch them right in the face; her flight might be a little late but she’ll get there eventually. Our hearts will break as we see theirs do. A tear may fall as theirs fall in torrents.

But on the other side of town, there are the hopeful ones. The dreamers. Lost in their own worlds, they barely register the one before them. That’s not always a good thing.

They’ll look up to us. We’ll be surprised at first. Shocked that they are looking directly at us. You won’t be able to turn but I’ll look behind us to see if they’re trying to catch the eye of a zooming shooting star. But it’ll be us that they’re looking at ; the moon and (his? Her? We should really have that conversation ) trustee sidekick.

For some reason, they wont ask me to give you guys a minute. For that night, all dreamer- moon privilege shall be waived.
Then they’ll tell us their heart, their pain, their deepest desires.
We’ll listen. Could we do anything beyond that? For some reason, you will be brighter. As if the dreams and pain of dreamers are the light you reflect back.

**
She’ll leave the house,wanting to just be outside. It’s a warm night and the moon seems to be beckoning her. She doesn’t think much about it but she knows what she feels.  She goes with her gut.

He’ll be walking down the street. He wont know where he’s going, but not home. Not right away. His chest will have a dull ache. Incessant. A slow burn on the inside. Never stopping. Never getting better.

He’ll see the bench, perfectly encased in the amber street light and he’ll know it’s where he was going. He’ll sit down with a sigh, wishing he could rip out his heart and be done with the pain.

He wont notice her sit beside him as his head will be buried in his hands.

‘Beautiful night, isnt it?’

He’ll look at her,sursprised. She’ll be smiling slightly, looking up at us. He wont be able to stop looking at her. The amber street light and the silverish moonlight will play on her features beautifully. She’ll look at him for the first time. He’ll look up at us quickly as the dull throb in his heart turns to flustered beats. They’ll look up at us, not really seeing us,  but the possibilities of the next lifetime.

He’ll be glad that he didn’t rip out his heart. He may have some use for it after all.

******
To every journey, there is an end. And to this journey, that end has come. Mwende the dreamer was born over two years ago but now it’s time she grew up a little.

I appreciate you, dear reader, who has been with me throughout the journey. Listening to my winding monologues and pushing me on when the hill got too steep.

I hope that you’ll join me as I start a new on my new platform mwendeideally.com.

You didn’t think I was actually quitting, did you? I’d go crazy if I didn’t write!

See you guys on the other side 😉

The Other Side of the Bed

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She woke up to the sound of his key in the door. There was no sleep to rub from her eyes, not these days. The clock beside the bed blinked green. It was 2 a.m.

She listened as he shut the door and kicked off his shoes. She would find them askew by the door in the morning, discarded by their owner. Something she knew a little about.

She followed his footsteps …on the stairs? He never came straight to bed! Not before supper! This she had learned earlier on in their marriage. Sourly, she thought about the food that sat in the microwave and regreted that it would go to waste. If only she could go and pack it in the fridge, but she couldn’t ..

Her train of thought was cut short by the opening bedroom door. She closed her eyes, even though she was turned away from him. She stiffened and pretended to be fast asleep.

She sighed with relief when she heard his muffled footsteps heading towards the bathroom, stopping only to drop his clothes on the empty floor. The closed bathroom door allowed her freedom to breath.

What had they become?!
Her hand went to her head, as if in pain, but that was not the part of her that ached. Her chest tightened in anguish and the tears she had been holding onto threatened to spill.     

She quickly huddled herself into a ball just as he emerged from the washroom. He didn’t put on the light. He allowed her that courtesy.

He slipped into bed. He didn’t touch her. Not in the way that put people on the family way, but he didn’t touch her. Sometimes when she’d close her eyes, she would imagine she was alone in their bed. And their marriage .

How had they become one of those couples?!?
They never talked, apart from asking for the jam or the mashed potatoes or the day’s paper. They were both always so busy. With everything it seemed, except each other.   

She couldn’t think of when it had all began.  One minute they were deep in love, lost in each other’s eyes, whispering forever and a day, painting heaven and brewing passion. The next, they couldn’t even have a conversation.
Had she stepped back? Had he?

His breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm. He was asleep. She turned, careful not to wake him up. His face was calm. The green light from the clock cast over the contours of his face.

Her heart clenched as she remembered how much she loved that face. How much she still did. And knowing that hurt the most.
No, she hadn’t moved away. He had. He had stopped fighting for them. He had stopped caring. He had stopped loving her.

Her hand flew to her mouth to stop the cry of anguish that threatened to tear out.  
He was leaving her. She had no doubt about it. Why? She had no clue. But she couldn’t make him love her. She had already tried.

All she could do was wait for the day his suitcases would be by the staircase. For the day he couldn’t meet her gaze. For the day he would do what he had already done a long time ago; leave.

She touched her face to find it wet. She was crying. She wiped the tears away gingerly and without anouther thought, she took his arm and wrapped it around her, her back to him. She felt him wake up and held her breath,waiting for him to pull away.

He didn’t. He tightened his hold on her and kissed her forehead. She didn’t understand, but if this was their last night together, she didn’t want to spend it trying to understand.

That night, she slept through the whole night for the first time in a long time, and in the morning, she didn’t wake up to an empty bed. Now she really didn’t understand.  But when she looked into his eyes, she finally did. He hadn’t come back. He’d never left. He was just on the other side of the bed.

Kryptonite

Its not easy being different. It means that no one understands. No one can listen. Really listen. Especially when its something that everyone knows off. Its like the sun to us mortals versus the sun to a blood-sucking, fang-bearing creature of the night. Its like a haircut to the average guy versus a haircut to Samson. Its kryptonite. My kryptonite.

I know how to be strong. That’s how we were brought up. Be strong, they said. Don’t cry, they said. And so I didn’t.
I know how to be unmoving. Grounded firmly on cement-block values. There’s no going anywhere without them, and at no careless speed.
I know how to fly, to navigate shark-infested waters, to save the world in one blow. But.. but.

Even Superman wasn’t quite as super as he thought himself to be.
A rock. Imagine that! A simple rock brings him to his knees. Reduces him to less than a man, tormented by an unexplained pain.
Kryptonite. My weakness. My Achilles heel. My unraveling. My rock, and my hard place. My edge of sanity. My undoing. Mi corazón.

Tales of an Old Maid

Its been quite a long day. First, I made the grand discovery that I, am old. Ancient. Mummified. Soon to rise from the dead. 
I no longer identify with the ‘younglings’.

I sneer at their verbal t-shirts, and their colorful shoes. Their gigantic caps are beyond me! Fashion, you say? Pah, I reply with disgust.
This language they speak … English? Nay! Jamaican English.. what does that mean?! Don’t ask me; I’m old.

Apart from the chalk-on-blackboard kids, life is grand.

This is the part where I’m supposed to go off about my new beau or new crush, right? Well, not today, and not for a while, either.

Quirkyalone
I came about the word a short while back and oh, the joy! There is an actual word for it! I am a degree less weird because I can identify it with something that didn’t originate from my head.

It being, the state of being single and happy. I hear your collective groan but I ask you to just keep an open mind.

To some people, relationships come naturally. Like a dog to water, they paddle through it like they belong. For some reason, everyone is expected to take to the water, which is quite unfair, don’t you think?     

Some of us are cats; we might as well be allergic to water.  We’re just a match not meant to be.

That’s not to say I’m completely opposed to dating; it’s just best taken in measured doses. If at all.For everyone’s sake, of course. The one time I tried, I crashed the car into the first wall I saw so I guess that tells you something.

For now, I am blissfully single, enjoying the benefits of time for introspection and watching the game from the bench.

On behalf of fellow quirkyalones, I will say that yes, we are quirky. Mainly because we refuse to conform to this standard mould that is expected, and also because we are quirky in the very sense of the word. 

But lets face it, quirkies are like the best people ever! We’re kooky and are not afraid of making a fool of ourselves from time to time, so laughs ahead! 

So if you don’t mind, let me get back to playing bridge and knitting sweaters.

Burnout

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Caring hurts. Such is the folly of the human heart. It brings such joy at first, to be vulnerable,  but with time you realize that you’ve stretched your neck across a chopping board. You’ve given someone a butcher’s knife to hold over your head, hoping they wont drop it.

Its a thrill, knowing you trust a person. But the hand gets tired. Distractions come along, and though they may not mean to do it maliciously, the knife falls.

Disbelief comes first, then anger. Anger can burn for quite a while . But staying angry takes such a toll. Eventually, you tire of the rage game and tell yourself ‘i will never….’.

Being human is such a chore. Sometimes it becomes too much too bear and its just easier not to care.
Its easier to sit in this chair and not move. It’s easier to try not to do anything to disturb the air around me. Its calm and peaceful as it is. No need to mess that up. So I’ll just sit here and be invisible. Its easier.  

Couch Potato Series: Tujuane

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Tujuane.
You either love the show or hate it. I’m sure everyone has their own thoughts, which they readily share anytime the show is brought up, but here are my two cents.

For those whose humble abode is carved out of the side of a mountain, tujuane is a Kenyan dating show which follows guys through their first date.

I watch tujuane for a number of reasons. One, it offers a glance at the structure of society. The divide between the hustler and the Barbie, the shao and the urbanite, wannabes and those who’re comfortable being themselves.    
Aaand.. the comments tweeps have on twitter are a blast. You’re better off ‘reading’ tujuane on twitter than watching it.

I’ve watched pretty much every episode of the show but I haven’t seen a ‘good’ date yet.
I get that drama gets more views but camuuun!!!! We’ve seen almost 50 dates and well, its been disheartening.
Here’s a thought to the producers; why don’t you give us at least one good date??

A date where both people can speak decent English, not the nail-on-chalkboard jargon that has us grammarnazis, writhing in pain. That’s not too much to ask, is it?

Get guys with wit! We need some interesting conversation!! I’m not saying write a script, just get people who are intelligent and have a sense of humor . That’s good television, if I ever heard of any.

I agree with everyone who’s been calling out for older guys on the show, as opposed to the 20 year old young’ns. Sure, its fun to see them fumbling around, but with time, it gets sad and depressing then downright irritating.  I’m pretty sure we’re at the latter stage.
Sincerely,
Couch potato.           

My Unspoken

This post is not about a traumatic life experience, nor is it about the television show. This post is about a boy. Yes, I hear your collective groan, but I can’t promise you haven’t heard this story before. I’m sure you’re all posed to go agony Aunt on me but just read the whole thing before you go sharing your wisened snippets, will ya?

Its hard to write about a person you don’t know, leave alone actually talking about it. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve ended up sounding like a nut job, so I’ve learnt to keep my nuts to myself.

Why am I writing about it now, you wonder? Because, it’s over.  Which is ridiculous because it never even started, and yet, it has an ending.

He crept up on me. Like an advertisement jingle you find yourself humming along to. I didn’t notice him; I noticed that I noticed him. I found myself looking for him and was disappointed when he was nowhere in sight, tense when he was. 

We’ve spoken. Once. It was a disaster. My heart was in my ears and I acted like such a tool.

I hear you saying it’s just a dumb crush but its not. What it is a ‘hmm‘ kinda thing.

A crush is usually a hubber-hubber, wolf howl, eyebrow-wiggle, raunchy whistle, helloooow handsome kind of a deal, which this is- was- not.   

It’s like when your foodie pal has told you about this amazing cake that they swear by the moon, is heaven on a fork. You highly doubt that’s the case, but you let them drag you to the celestial bakery for ‘heaven-on-a-fork’ cake. When you do take the first bite under their smug i-told-you-so gaze, you say, ‘hmm, this is actually pretty good. ‘
That hmmm.

The ‘hmm’ of possibility in reality and not just a fanciful affair. Well, as things stand, he has no clue I exist. And you know what? That’s okay. Sure, I’ll always think ‘maybe…’ but some things just have to be let go.
At least I know his kind exists.