Rain: The one who has felt showers as a gift from the skies will not be the same… The sun warms the skin with its comforting presence yet those showers come back, knocking wittingly, pulling you into the shower, like an eternal gift. A gift that returns every time water drops from its container, a careless reminder into an unforgettable living livid lucid past. The one has experienced showers as a gift from the skies will not be the same… engulfed in depths unseen unexpected, one learns – or does she – to float on the expanding immensity of the gift… the rain.the sun. the rain.
Defiant amnesia: The river cries when the moon stops watching itself on its surface, finally i could see the depths of its secrets under the murky colours of its nonexistent shores, there is a world calling me – i am on my way to the slow siesta you impose on those adventurers who thought themselves brave enough to explore your depths – hit by temporary amnesia, the type that kills a man alive, an enthralling resounding siren’s call, she tries again. Defiant.
How could disbelief still exists in the sight of the shades in one tear? I believe because I have seen tears of a million shades.
A feeling called home: And in this chaotic foreign land, blossoms a parallel universe in which only reigns comfort peace growth a small paradise in the middle of winter so warm it sometimes burns yet so soft that it soothes landing fall after fall. That silent stroll sings across frozen spaces and leaves a hallow trail of warmth, that feeling she calls home.
It’s a perfect time to….when the unexpected winds of winter suddenly cover your grounds with white blinding snow
when the white bowl you hold in your hand slips your frozen fingers
when the warm out of the white radiator just isn’t warm enough
when your gaze changes and for the first time notices the separation between blue and white on a wall that never ceases to be a constant
when the red flags turn rigid frozen white bland and not as dynamic as they have once flown
when the roads just feel a little slippery for your otherwise tenacious wheels
when the smug lets you see into yourself with a little more clarity
when you breathe just a little slower as in that momentous moment in the movie
when something unexpected gifts your frozen soul with a warm corner smile unexpectedly
when you dive little deeper into something, hopeful, scared, nurturing the beautifully empty canvas before your eyes
when you hear echoing in your deepest core “black is not the absence of colour but the presence of the pigment that ressembles power”*, you are reminded that absence and presence are not mere opposite
when you realise that an empty canvas is in all honesty never empty but a newer universe where freedom demands you welcome her, where she insistently knocks waiting on the empty canvas
it is a perfect time to give, to forgive, to allow yourself to love, yourself
*Extract from a poem by a talented South African poet, Siyabonga Njica