Today in the Book of Shame-Being the Writer and the Wound

 Today in the Book of Shame

To the finest of them all,

I think you should read this in front of a mirror—yes, stand there, steady yourself, and look into your own eyes. Watch how they tremble. Watch how your broad face holds its silence when these words begin to press, then pierce, then settle beneath your skin. Do not look away. You owe yourself that much—to witness the unraveling as it happens.

Because this is the account of that morning.

The brisk walk—do you remember it? The one that was meant to be precise, measured, disciplined. Footsteps aligned like soldiers in quiet agreement. But something broke. Not loudly, not dramatically—just a subtle betrayal in the knees, a trembling that turned certainty into hesitation. A walk no sane mind would willingly take, yet you took it. You carried it.

The old book asks, “How can two walk together, if they are not in agreement?”
I will not pretend to answer that. I will not pretend I know which part of you refused the agreement. But I watched you sit at that dusty table, and I watched the stillness swallow you whole.

You did not just sit—you marinated.

In shame.

A slow, suffocating kind. The kind that does not scream at first, but instead wraps itself around your ribs, tightening with every breath until breathing itself feels like a confession. You looked into that hole—the one that opened beneath you—and you tried to measure it. You thought if you could just understand its depth, you could survive it.

But some depths are not meant to be known. Only endured.

And still, you leaned closer.

You wanted the fall. You wanted to be swallowed, to disappear into that blackness where maybe—just maybe—you would no longer have to explain yourself. No more trembling. No more pretending. Just silence.

But instead, it kept you spinning.

Endlessly.

A cruel suspension—neither falling nor escaping. Just circling, dizzy, unhinged, untethered. Your hands reached out, desperate for something—anything. Every shadow became a branch. Every illusion, a promise. But your fingers closed around nothing.

Nothing.

And the emptiness echoed louder than any scream you tried to release.

You gasped—not for air, but for meaning. For grounding. For something solid enough to remind you that you still existed outside of this shame. But the more you reached, the more it slipped away. The spinning did not stop. The dizziness did not soften.

And the cries—those loud, breaking cries—remained unanswered.

Especially that day.

You wanted to be buried in it, didn’t you? To let the shame cover you completely so you would not have to face the aftermath—the crumpled edges of what once held you together, the twisted strands of yourself you no longer recognized, the noise of a world that did not pause to ask if you were okay.

You wanted silence.

But silence did not come gently. It came heavy, pressing, suffocating.

So here you stand.

In front of that mirror.

Still spinning in places no one else can see. Still reaching for roots that disappear the moment you believe in them. Still carrying a shame that does not announce itself, but lingers—quiet, persistent, unrelenting.

Tell me—do you see it now?

Not just the face.

But the fracture beneath it.

Because this is not just a memory.

It is a record.

And today, in the Book of Shame… you are both the writer and the wound.

What If I Sat Still?

What if I sat still?

Not out of discipline.
Not because I had mastered stillness.
But because movement was no longer possible.

---

Sickness and the Choice to Heal

I began this year sick and alone. And in that fragile state, I was forced into an early choice: to be angry at those who did not show up, or to recover. I could not do both.

Anger is not still.
It presses the body forward, tightens the chest, shortens the breath. It agitates the nervous system. For a sick body, anger is poison. I learned that quickly. So I chose forgiveness—not because it was noble, but because it was necessary. I needed my body to heal. I needed quiet. I needed stillness.

Susan Sontag once wrote that “illness is the night-side of life.” I entered that night early in the year. In sickness, illusions fall away. You discover that healing is not dramatic; it is slow, repetitive, and deeply solitary. Forgiveness, in that space, is not moral—it is medicinal.

---

Financial Collapse and the Weight of Panic

Then there was money. Or rather, the absence of it.

This year, I reached the lowest financial point I have ever known. And poverty does not merely restrict movement—it paralyzes the mind. I could not plan. I could not imagine. I could barely breathe. Panic arrived unannounced, over small things: water, electricity, doors, mornings. Every necessity became a calculation. Every morning required confirmation that survival was still affordable.

Stillness is difficult when your life depends on transactions.

Simone Weil wrote that “poverty is a pressure that crushes the soul.” I felt that pressure daily. I cried deeply, bitterly—not out of self-pity, but exhaustion. And yet, somewhere in that paralysis, I learned to breathe through panic. Breath by breath. Day by day. Stillness, I learned, is not peace. Sometimes it is endurance.

---

Betrayal and the Cost of Compassion

Then came betrayal.

Not the kind that comes from strangers, but the kind that enters because it is invited. People I welcomed. People I prayed for. People I defended. People I held compassion for. That betrayal was not loud—it was disillusioning. It introduced anger again. And confusion.

With people, you can block access. That part is easy.
What lingers is the why.

Hannah Arendt wrote about the banality of evil—not always grand or dramatic, but quiet, ordinary, embedded in everyday relationships. I eventually named what I experienced as malice. Not misunderstanding. Not confusion. Malice that tapped into something I believed I had already healed: the need to be loved.

I am not afraid of being disliked. Truly.
But dislike me from a distance.
Do not enter my space under the disguise of care.

---

Ambition, Rejection, and the Question of Worth

I have always carried ambition—a burning desire to make a difference. That fire did not disappear this year. It dimmed.

There was an interview I walked away from knowing I had done my best. When rejection came, it crushed me. Not because of ego—but because it confirmed a fear I already carried: that perhaps I am not needed. That perhaps I am inadequate. Unprepared. Replaceable.

That doubt still lingers.

Even gratitude feels complicated when inadequacy sits beside it. I find myself asking God for the same thing repeatedly: an opportunity. Not fame. Not validation. Just a place where my contribution matters.

Mercies: In Movement and Prayer

And yet—there were moments of light.

I ran at 5 a.m. in the cold. Something I never thought I would do. The air against my skin was honest. My thoughts were clear. My body felt capable. For those moments, before the day demanded money and answers, I felt free. I loved the discipline. I loved the energy. I loved the brief return to myself.

And prayer.

Prayer grounded me when nothing else could. I prayed and prayed. Without eloquence. Without certainty. Sometimes without hope. Just presence. As Anne Lamott says, “Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can’t imagine.” Prayer sustained me. And it still does.

---

Closing: Stillness as Becoming

So what if I sat still?

This year taught me that stillness is not passive. It is not resignation. It is a form of courage. Sitting still meant choosing healing over anger. Breath over panic. Integrity over bitterness. Faith over despair.

Stillness did not solve everything.
But it kept me alive.

And perhaps that is where hope begins—not in answers, but in endurance. Not in certainty, but in staying. I do not yet know what opportunity will come, or when. But I know this: I am still becoming. The ground beneath me is quiet now, but it is not empty.

Seeds grow in stillness.

And I am still here.

Walking into a Buffet and Coming Out with an Empty Plate

 

Walking into a buffet and leaving with an empty plate is not a weakness. It is not indecision. It is the ultimate act of maturity. Self-awareness and, at best, self-love.  For many women, it is the courage to look at everything laid out before them, sample with their eyes, discern with their spirit, and still walk away saying, “None of this will feed me.”

Life offers a buffet. Each dish looks different, smells different, promises something different. But not everything on the table is worth a woman’s appetite, body, or soul.

Think of life and relationships like a buffet table. There’s everything—sweet, spicy, bitter, rich, and sometimes downright unpalatable. Each dish resembles a different kind of man or relationship experience:

The Buffet Table 

• The Fried Foods (greasy, enticing, but unhealthy long-term):
  These come with a thrill, with charm, passion, and fireworks. You might feel alive for a minute or a week, but the aftermath is worse than a hangover.  The results are drained, guilty, or some malaise in the heart and the body.

• The Sugary Desserts (sweet, addictive, but empty calories)
  Welcome to Flattery Central_you will be adored and confused with promises of pleasure. They taste good for a while, but they do not nourish.  Keeping women coming back for a sugar high, yet they never fill the deep hunger inside.

• The Overcooked Vegetables (soft, bland, no flavour)
  Tastes as it sounds-bland- safe, predictable, and available — but uninspiring. There is no challenge, stimulation, or motivation; there is no growth.  It is like eating food without seasoning.

• The Exotic Dishes -beautiful, mysterious, but unfamiliar to the body
  Dazzle City- be-dazzled with mystery and in/difference. They intrigue, but often women discover they don’t truly digest them well. Not everything beautiful on the plate is meant for the system.

• The Stale Bread
   Who lingers this long! Perhaps from the ingredients, stale as the yeast or sourdough — exes, old flames, or “situationships.” They are easy to grab when one is hungry, but they offer no nourishment and never satisfy.

• The Balanced Meal -rare but real
  Whole Meal- protein, greens, and spice — nourishing, steady, and fulfilling. You rarely get these meals anywhere/ You can barely make them in your house!! Takes work, right?  seen, valued, and properly fed -both body and spirit. But he is not always on the buffet table, and that’s okay.

The Maturity of an Empty Plate

The buffet will always be full. There will always be fried, sweet, stale, or overcooked options calling women’s names. But the greatest maturity is to say: “I am hungry, but I will not settle. I will not fill myself with what will harm me.”

For women everywhere, walking away with an empty plate is not a loss. It is wisdom. It is knowing that hunger deserves better than temporary fillers. And it is the quiet, steady faith that what truly nourishes will not be found in a careless buffet — it will be prepared, chosen, and served with love.

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What If I Pull This One Thread

There are days when I sit with the weight of my emotions pressing against my chest, heavy and relentless. It feels like I am standing in front of a tapestry—my life, my choices, my love stories woven into patterns both beautiful and broken. And in that tapestry, there is one loose thread. I know that if I pull it, everything I’ve held together so tightly might unravel.

But maybe unraveling is exactly what I need.

The Fear of the Thread

I am afraid to pull it because I already know what lies beneath. Pain. Disappointment. Anger. The truth of how many times I have given my heart only to be handed the raw end of love. And countless hours, days, years even of chasing people.  The truth of how often I stood in front of selfish people who would never choose me, who knew the art of underhanded ways—evasions, distractions, clever words that always left me holding the weight of silence. Like the woman I hugged for years, and I could feel the grin of her mouth in my back. 

Pulling the thread means admitting I saw the signs and chose to stay. That I stood close to the line, waiting for something more, when all they gave me were speeches and baseless conversations that went nowhere.

The Anger and the Blame

There is anger in me—not just at them, but at myself. For listening. For believing. For thinking that “nothingness” could somehow turn into something real. For allowing my heart to be weak, my mind to be persuaded, my time to be wasted.

If I pull this thread, I will have to face the mirror and see my own reflection—not as a victim, but as someone who betrayed herself by not walking away sooner. And maybe that’s the hardest part.

The Drain of Almost-Love

Being entangled with people who refuse to stand in truth is exhausting. Some days I doubt If I am a believer in truth or someone hanging in an illusion. They drain not only my energy, but my will, my focus, and the values I hold dear. I find myself negotiating with shadows, forcing clarity from people who prefer to live in smoke. And every time I try to hold the line, I lose a piece of myself.

It is not love—It is not friendship_it is distraction disguised as connection. And it keeps me from living fully in my own light.

The Loneliness That Waits

What scares me most is not their absence—it is the silence that comes after. If I pull the thread, I will be left alone. Alone to sit in stillness, with no messages, no calls, no illusions to keep me company. Alone with nothing but my thoughts echoing back at me.

And maybe that silence won’t last just a day. Maybe it will stretch into weeks, into an eternity where I learn to live without anyone to hold my hand or whisper my worth.

But perhaps that is the training I need. To sit in stillness. To learn aloneness not as punishment, but as a new kind of strength.

The Possibility of Freedom

So what if I do pull it? What if the whole tapestry comes undone? Maybe then, for the first time, I will no longer be bound to the weight of illusions. Maybe I will find freedom in the unraveling.

Because pulling the thread might leave me alone, but it will also return me to myself. It will remind me that I am more than the speeches, more than the almost-loves, more than the wasted time.

And maybe—just maybe—that thread is not the end of the fabric. Maybe it is the beginning of a new design. One I weave with honesty, clarity, and love that starts with me.

At this point, silence is better the questions. Like a quiet storm. 

Confessions on Rejection: I Always Expect(ed) to Be Rejected

I’ve never known what it feels like to be someone’s first choice.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped waiting to be chosen. Not because I didn’t want to be, but because it stopped feeling realistic. Rejection started following me quietly — not like a storm, but like a shadow. A constant, familiar ache.

When people leave, I barely flinch. I already knew they would. I’ve trained myself to expect it, to prepare for it, to numb myself just in time. It’s not even dramatic anymore. It’s routine. Someone pulls away, goes silent, grows cold — and I say to myself, “There it is. Again.”

I used to think that if I loved harder, showed up more, became softer, sweeter, quieter — maybe then I’d be kept. Maybe then I’d be chosen. But life has a way of silencing those dreams. People I gave everything to left without looking back. Friends I held space for vanished when I needed them most. Even family — those bound by blood — made me feel like a burden.

Eventually, I convinced myself that I was simply not meant to be “the one.” Not the favorite. Not the safe place. Just the extra. The backup plan. The one who understands. The one who is too “strong” to need anything back.

And the worst part? Even when someone tries to love me, I still expect the ending. I still hold my breath. I wait for the disappointment. I rehearse how I’ll comfort myself when it inevitably falls apart. I’m so used to pain that even joy makes me suspicious.

I’ve chosen people who couldn’t love me. I’ve opened up to those who weren’t safe. I’ve handed over my heart to people who barely wanted to hold it. Not because I didn’t see the red flags — but because part of me believed that was all I deserved. Rejection has shaped my story so deeply, I no longer recognize the parts of me that were once full of hope.

And yet… I keep going.

Even when I feel invisible, I still write. I still speak. I still hold others when they fall apart, even when no one notices me breaking. Not because I’m strong — but because it’s the only thing I know how to do. Sometimes, you don’t show up because you’re the strongest. You show up because it's all you can do that day. And sometimes, you help not because you have plenty, but because it’s the only good thing left to give.

I’ve learned something along the way, though. The problem was never that I was unworthy of love. The problem was that I gave it to people who didn’t know how to hold it. People who had no idea how to love something so honest, so raw, so real.

It wasn’t me.

And it’s not you either, if this story sounds familiar.

If you’ve ever sat silently in a room full of people and still felt alone...
If you’ve ever given someone everything and they gave you just enough to keep you hoping...
If you’ve ever begged God to just let someone stay this time...Or to help you forget someone or give you strength to let them go...I have prayed this painfully. 
I see you.

We don’t always get to rewrite our beginning. But we do get to choose how the story ends. And maybe, just maybe, the healing begins not when someone else finally chooses us — but when we finally choose ourselves.

When we stop shrinking. When we stop begging. When we stop asking, “Why not me?”

I want to stop living like love is a prize I have to earn. I want to wake up one day and not feel like I’m waiting to be worthy. I want to believe — with every part of me — that my heart is not too much, not too soft, not too complicated.

It’s enough.

I’m enough.

Even if no one claps for me. Even if no one shows up. Even if no one stays.

I will.

And that, after everything — is my confession, my truth, and my beginning.

A Birthday Wrapped in Fear, Not Balloons

 

Today is my birthday.

But there’s no joy in this breath. There’s no dancing candlelight in my soul. 

Last year, I was angry on this day. Deeply. Bitterly. And then, a friend died—not by coincidence, but by divine confrontation. It felt like God was blackmailing me into gratitude. "You’re angry about your life? Here—watch it be taken from someone else."

And so I folded. I said thank you. I whispered gratitude with trembling lips. But deep down, I wasn’t grateful. I was terrified.

What Does It Mean to Be Alive When You Feel Dead Inside?

I am breathing, yes. But living? No.

I have nothing to show. 

All I have are years—a lot of them now—and a long trail of almosts, maybes, and could-have-beens.

I watch people younger than me build legacies from scratch. I see people with fewer opportunities thrive in systems I can’t even touch. And me? I’m here. Existing. Floating in a fog of barely-ness.

The Guilt of Feeling Unseen

Even writing this feels like a sin. Because I know what the world will say.

“She’s alive.”
“She’s healthy.”
“She should be grateful.”
“She should visit a cancer ward before complaining.”

I’ve heard it all. And maybe they’re right.

Maybe I’m ungrateful. Maybe I’m childish for wanting more. Maybe I’m wrong for crying on my birthday when others are buried before they see theirs.

But let me say this, in bold and raw truth:

Being grateful doesn’t mean I don’t feel the ache.
Being alive doesn’t mean I’m not drowning.

The Quiet Failures That Scream the Loudest

I feel like I’ve failed. My children especially. My parents. Everyone. Yes, my children are loved. Yes, I am present. I kiss them. I hug them. I listen when they cry and celebrate when they laugh.

But I know love isn’t a roof.
Love isn’t school fees.
Love doesn’t feed the future.

And though I give them all the heart I have, I fear I’m cheating them out of something more certain, more successful.

I fear they’ll grow up and say, “Our mother was kind, but she couldn’t give us a better life.”

And the weight of that fear… it crushes me daily.

Aging Without Arrival: When Time Moves But You Stand Still

Every year, the clock ticks louder.

It says, “You’re running out of time.”
It says, “You’re still here, with empty hands.”
It says, “You said next year would be better. But look.”
And it points at my broken promises to myself.

I have tried. I have started. I have built. But it always ends in smallness. In shadows. In being unnoticed. Like the world doesn’t hear my voice, no matter how loud I scream inside.

God, Are You Angry With Me?

I wonder if God is disappointed too.
If He looks at me and thinks, “This is not what I made you for.”
If He sees my guilt and my grief and turns His face away.

Because even my prayers feel like apologies.

“I’m sorry for feeling this way.”
“I’m sorry I’m not better.”
“I’m sorry I’m not stronger.”

And still, I pray. Still, I believe. Even if it’s with a tired heart.

What If This Is All There Is?

That’s the scariest part.
Not death.
But the idea that this is life.

That maybe this is as good as it gets. That maybe the story doesn’t turn. That maybe I’ll always be the one who "almost" made it. That maybe joy is for others, and I’m just here to clap for them while I bleed in silence.

But I’m Still Here. And That Must Mean Something

Even in this sadness.
Even in this aching birthday.
Even in this empty-feeling age.

I am still here.
I showed up for my life, even when it broke me.
I wake up. I care. I cry. I laugh when I can.
I carry people, even when I can’t carry myself.

And that is not nothing.

To Anyone Else Crying On Their Birthday

You are not ungrateful.
You are not a failure.
You are not invisible.

You are human. And this world sometimes gives us more pain than it gives us praise. But you have breath. You have awareness. You have the courage to name your sorrow—and that is divine.

There is no shame in being sad, even while alive. There is no crime in hoping for more, even while thankful.

“Happy Birthday, dear soul.  That’s the fight.”

You Have No Idea How Quickly People Turn On You: The True Horror of Becoming the Hated Spouse

                               Pic: AI

 Eleanor’s Descent Into Fear

What happens when the person who once whispered I love you in the dark now becomes the person you fear will take your life?

Eleanor never imagined her world would shrink into a shell of silence, dread, and paranoia. On the outside, she had what looked like a peaceful separation—two adults parting ways. But behind closed doors, behind every whispered phone call, every delayed knock at the door, every unfamiliar face that lingered too long near her driveway—was Boris, a man who didn’t just fall out of love, but grew into hate.

They say when someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time. But how do you believe that someone you once trusted with your life now thrives on the thought of destroying it?

Boris never screamed. He never hit her with fists. He never needed to. He used silence, manipulation, and control as weapons. He was the architect of Eleanor’s isolation. He built her cage brick by brick—with words disguised as concern, with subtle threats masked as jokes, with favors that came with the cost of compliance.

The most dangerous men are not the ones with loud tempers. The most dangerous are the ones who operate in the shadows, quietly recruiting others to carry out their cruelty while they keep their hands clean.

Abuse in the Shadows

Eleanor’s life became a theatre of psychological warfare. Friends disappeared. Family stopped calling. Neighbors avoided eye contact. Her own children, confused and afraid, were used as pawns in a game that never should have involved them.

Boris let other people do the dirty work. A sudden job loss. A false complaint. A hacked account. He was everywhere and nowhere. Every time Eleanor began to feel safe, something would happen—a car tailing her, a strange knock at midnight, her son returning from a visit with bruised emotions and a new hatred in his voice.

She knew. She knew Boris was still orchestrating it all.

You are living, but everyday you are haunted and wanted. Every breathe feels like it is borrowed. 

The fear never really leaves. Eleanor started locking every door. She installed cameras, changed numbers, avoided certain streets. But paranoia is never satisfied. Paranoia feeds on facts—and the fact was, Boris hated her. Still.

Not just hated her

He wanted her to suffer until she had no breath left in her. 

—He wanted her erased.  by frustration, by poverty, by any injustice she might face, By every bad thing imaginable!! 

He had made her the enemy, and in his story, enemies must be punished. His hate extended past the marriage, past the divorce, past the years of separation. He turned everyone into weapons—friends, systems, even the children.

And still, the question lingered: Would he try to kill her? Would he send someone? Would he do it himself?

Boris was a coward in the purest form. Not just afraid of consequences, but afraid of showing the world his true face. He would rather infect others with his venom than spill it himself.

He would never raise a gun—but he was too lazy to raise one. Too afraid to stain his hands
He would never use a knife—he tried once. 
He would hit her, but the worst pain came from weaponizing her children's love, her credibility, her peace.

He would rather they starve because then, he would retrieve their dried-up bodies and stand to tell people, "I told you so."

And that is the real violence—the slow murder of someone’s reputation, safety, and sense of self. The kind of murder that doesn’t show up in autopsy reports, but lives in every anxious heartbeat and sleepless night.

Never believed-What a shame!!!

“He’s such a great guy.” “He’d never do that.” “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

That’s what Eleanor heard when she tried to speak.

Because Boris wore the perfect mask. The charming man. The community helper. The doting father. The good guy.

But behind the scenes, he was poisoning everything she touched. And when she finally tried to run—he didn’t chase her. He didn’t need to.

He just waited. And watched. And set things in motion so that wherever she went, the hatred followed.

Living With a Ghost That Refuses to Die

Eleanor lives alone now. Her house is quiet, but never peaceful. She works, she raises her children, she pretends.

But the fear lives too. In the quiet moments. In the flicker of doubt. In the mail that goes missing. In the anonymous call.

She knows what Boris is capable of. Not because he ever screamed—but because he never had to.

He weaponized the world around her.

When Hate Refuses to Let Go

“You have no idea how quickly people turn on you,” Eleanor whispered once, “until they already have. Until you wake up one morning and realize—you’re the villain in someone else’s story. And in that story, the villain always dies.”

Boris still lives. But so does Eleanor.

And every day she wakes up and chooses to live—is a rebellion. A refusal to be erased. A declaration that she will not go quietly, even if he wishes she would.

Dark Truths: The Tricky Interchange of Human Relationships

 

There are those who enter our lives like a storm—wild, all-consuming, impossible to ignore. And then there are those who slip in like whispers, soft and fleeting, leaving us wondering if they were ever truly there.

Human relationships are a delicate dance between depth and shallowness, between truth and illusion. Sometimes, we wade into waters we believe are deep, only to realize we’ve been standing in puddles all along. Other times, we assume something is temporary, yet it grips us like roots in the earth, refusing to let go.

But the trickiest part? You never really know which is which.

The Fragility of Connection

We are told that love, in all its forms, is meant to last. That friendships should be unwavering. That people who once held us close will always remain within reach. But reality is less romantic. People grow, people fade, people betray.

A conversation once rich with laughter turns hollow.
A presence once comforting becomes suffocating.
A love once infinite now feels like a borrowed moment.

Not because we want it to—but because that is the nature of human relationships.

The Depths We Crave, The Surfaces We Accept

There is something terrifying about looking into someone’s eyes and realizing they no longer see you the same way. The shift is subtle, like the quiet between waves before the tide pulls away for good.

And yet, we continue.
We chase, we hold, we build castles out of sand, knowing well that the tide is inevitable.

But here’s the raw truth: not all love is meant to be deep.
Not every hand that holds yours will keep you safe.
Not every ‘forever’ is meant to last.

And perhaps, that’s okay.

When to Hold On, When to Let Go

Maybe the secret to surviving human relationships is knowing when to surrender to the drift and when to fight against the current.

Some people are meant to stay, to carve their name into the story of our existence.
Others are meant to teach us, to remind us that impermanence is not always loss, but sometimes, liberation.

So, what do we do?
We learn to accept love in all its forms.
We cherish the ones who stay.
We release the ones who were never ours to keep.

And most importantly, we remain whole—even when others leave pieces of themselves behind.

Dear Ocean that is me

 

Pic: National Geographic

I call you an ocean because some days I 

cannot figure out your depth or your shallowness,

Do you run so deep that most people

drown at first trial

Is it that you are so deep and so dark

That nobody can survive you and 

Your enormity!!

Or is that you are shallow that no ship can anchor

Mightily!!

Or that ship and light boats are waved around in your expanse

Which is it, dear ocean that is me?

Because, I have watched from ashore.

Spectators admire the blue ocean,

Some even stare into the deep heart of the 

ocean

While other stare and try touching the waters,

When the water forms little ripples or it rumbles,

Most ran way, others watch from a distance, 

swallowed by the enormity of the waves

They stay and stare. Agape.

With eyes filled with wonder,

Dear ocean that is me, is that what you are good for?

A spectacle for the spectators

A wonder for the thrill seekers

Another adventure for the ocean explorer

All who dare  not enter the shores?

Dear ocean that is me, who are you really?

You remain untouched, dear ocean

Your beauty unexplored. Admired from afar

No fisherman dares see whats underneath the waters

No explore seeks to understand your treasures

     Buried underneath

    Even the pearls deep under

No diver dares get into your depth

Dear ocean that is me, What is so scary about you!?

I give up, Every thing Stolen

 

Days have come, days have gone by,

But 

This is is the day I finally, give up, everything

Everything stolen 

I mean the little episodes of sunshine and smile,

That do not belong to me, but the person whose actually makes you smile

Yes, I am giving up, because, the sun shines for the while,

And then and suddenly,

It goes dim on me, and

I am left in darkness and cold

Very cold,

Forced to hide my wears before the darkness finally catches up with me,

Yes, some days, I am left with a fever I cannot heal,

I give up, sunshine and smile that does not belong to me

Even when I take years, 

Some glories aint mine, I am accepting that today,

A lended glory is as good as the lender's comfort.

How did I get this comfortable?

Yet, I keep on waiting.

For a day of coffee, another day a phone call, another day a good message,

Just days, 

Just episodes 

Of little sunshine, 

A sun that cannot shine when I rise up in the morning and I am cold

And wanting of warmth 

A sun that cannot even dry the cold sheets of my heart, 

Useless at best

I give up, the stolen compliments,

If I was the prettiest thing 

or the bestest thing

or the thing of most value 

Why would I need to steal?

Waking up to call yourself a thief is no small fete 

It is from tired bones,

And a mind that refuses to settle for the little

or the back handed morsel, stolen

And loaded with a lie

Escorted with a handful of sand to cover the eyes

The ears too,

I give up, I refuse

Anything stolen. 

I am certain

I am calling myself out

I am telling myself

Enough is enough.

Give it all up. 

Even the sun 

I will stay in the dark, unafraid. 

A review of Grand Slam Life

 The Grand Slam Life is a flowing narrative of the experiences of Milton Haber and his family. It is the ideal story to detail the life of immigrants in the United States. Through the experiences, Milton brings to focuses on his parents’ experiences, settling in the United States, and family life. As a part of a family and a medical practitioner, Milton narrates his sacrifices to his patients. The medical perspective in the book brings about the "humanity concept" in Milton's practice. His choice of a duty station is the marginalized area of Laredo Texas. Milton's approach to the book explores the depth of commitment to medicine, the patients, and the communities he interacts with during his medical practice. The COVID-19 era and the execution of vaccines bring out the intensity of societal feelings. COVID-19 was a trying moment for the world and Milton brings out the experiences of a medical practitioner, patient, and survivor.

The book contains different themes surrounding the humanity topic. Firstly, the marriage between Milton’s American dad and Jewish mother. In addition, the family experiences during holidays and visit to Mexico. Besides, Milton vividly explains his social service year in General Escobedo, which is a community that ignites warmth and humanity. A close look at the prologue sums up Milton's service; it was holistic practice. The approach to medicine led Milton to understand his patients and solve their health problems and other life issues affecting them. An example of Milton’s commitment is in the choice of communities and the tireless efforts to execute Moderna trials. Essentially, Milton seeks to transform the human, community, and world experiences through medicine. A very noble commitment.

A positive aspect of this book is the flow of the story and the motivation of the author. The prologue gives an enriching view into the author's mindset and experiences. It is a book that connects the author and the reader. A particular favorite is Milton's experiences in General Escobedo. It brings to life the communal lifestyle in his interactions with the local shop owner and other folk. It is a deep connection to family and community. Besides, the book presents a level of optimism that ignites the human spirit in the face of tragedy. For example, the COVID-19 experiences are a good recollection for the world to understand the minds behind the vaccines and trials. From Milton’s words, I believe in the good of humanity and medicine.

I would rate this book 5 out of 5 since it is so well written. It is relatable in terms of growing up around family and other community and family-oriented experiences. In addition, the flow of the story makes it easy to follow. With minimal errors, the book provides vital information which helps relate Milton's experiences as a medical professional. The COVID-19 part is insightful since the world was practically "shut" It is an attempt to connect and bring out human resilience in the face of hardship.

I recommend the book to all readers as it exalts human virtues and commitment to making the world a better place. Milton's story is a good example to individuals who seek to make a difference in the world. A notable aspect of the book is the use of illustrations(pictures); it is a perfect way to make the story and the life of the author relatable to the readers.

A Valentine

#Photo, Fanaka Shop

I am writing this song 

For my love

He is a man, like no other

For the man I love is a Lion, His silence roars

His mane is a glorious site that matches his majestic face

His strength unmatched, 

Making me brave, For I have a protector

A Lion and a king: My Lion.

I close my eyes and I imagine his mighty hands

His tough cuddle

And when his skin is against my skin

I melt by his power

For a moment, the most important moment..

I get lost in his scent. It is the best place to be

 For Valentine and for all days

You should know , that you got a full heart

For your heart picked me, while I was weak

Your hand held me, when I was feeble

Your words revived me, 

Your touch, began a fire , that you only can quench

You , that make me to sing and dance to womanhood

You that introduced me to butterflies

Beautiful flowers that unfurl 

For everyday and taking me to the deepest of ends

My love for you is unending

P. S Special to Valentines to all mens!!!!

Look!!!

 

#Mine

Apology: Whatever you read here, will not sound good at all

This is an account of something so real it scares me to write. I am scared because I still dont see it or me. Growing up, I have had this sense of 'smallness' in me. When I talk of smallness, I mean all sort of things. From a small body frame, little feet and other things. However, I grew up around people who confused me on whether I am small or big. Let me explain this, from my small frame, and the fact of being a girl or woman, I was expected to tone it down a little. And it was not a good idea since my voice is thunderous. Even when I won, I had to tone it down as my voice of celebration was counted as pride. As I said , I was expected to be 'small'

I am going to talk about the way I walk. Whether I am alone or in the midst of people. I like lifting my feet low. I do not like dust. However, I feel forced to walk a certain way to fit into my smallness. And just writing that , made me realize that, I got confused when I became 'big.' I mean, even when given big responsibilities and anything big, I just want to freeze to my smallness. I am afraid of anything BIG,

Let me start with the simplest of things. Most of my friends talk of how big I have become!!! But most of you dont know that, When I go to buy clothes, I still look at the 'small dresses.' Big scares me. I still want to sink into my smallness, In the real sense, the big me got flesh.(kiuongamo-as my tribesmen would call it). I might be obese but even if I wasnt I still think I would be scared.

I want to recount something that happened to me last week, I came across a profile of someone close to me. This person, exalted her values, accomplishments and beliefs and I was wowed by the way they see themselves!!! For a moment, I was asking myself , how do you do that!!? I never asked them.

Takes me back to freezing to smallness. I do not even what to call it, It is childishness or immaturity or just plain fear. What is it really? My version of things..It is in me, and the fact that I do not look close enough. I do not look into my heart, my mind or my eyes or when I do, I do not want to reaffirm to myself who I am. What do I really see? 

Well, something I heard somewhere "The first step to recovery is admission" I am admitting to myself that I see myself small. or maybe I do not see myself at all. Circumstance or not, I cannot close my eyes to myself. and nobody is going to rescue me. I need to stand up for myself. I need to see myself. I am me and nobody can be me. 

Scared or not. It is my job to see myself. 

#Reflective Friday

How do I Tell People

#Photo from teahub.io

 How do I tell people, 

That on the day, I left the door locked behind me 

By the bang at the door, I knew I was alone

In a vortex 

With no strength 

And not a working mind

I was imprisoned

By the tenderness of heart

Yet my captor showed no mercy

How do I tell people!!

How do I tell people

That their letters did not reach me

Torn with malice

And that my phone was broken in half

No one could reach me

I was fed by one

A gospel that filled me with hatred

Anger

How do I tell people 

I couldn't  reach you!!

How do I tell people

That my swollen face was fist across my face

And that I was afraid to ignite his anger

That I fought to be in his good side

In everybody's good side

Everyday sinking into the mud

How do I tell people!!

How do I tell people 

That I had to break the walls 

And that walking alone was not easy

That my bruised head is not my fault

My knees are bleeding from crawling

How, do I tell people that 

My eyes are veiled by darkness

That sometimes I cannot see the distant

That is why I keep circling

It is dark

How do I tell people that!!!

 I am whatever to take me 

Spin it

Bend it

To your liking

Call me cold 

Or insensitive

But I wont give warmth

or be drained

I am selective on who sees which side of me

I radiate and roar

I keep my chin up

And sail away in freedom

Freedom from your lies

I am whatever you take me

Friday Party Time

We are all Kenyans, so we know the Friday tags. #Party time ~#Wakuu mnanitaka wapi? #Mtu wako anakupeleka wapi? It is a whole thing. I enjoy this part, because I get to read all about it and come Friday evening. I grab a blanket and headphones and sink into a movie marathon. Dont get me wrong I love my life and I looove fridays. 

However, this one was different for me. I slept early. With my headphones on. Good thing, we have technology. At some point, the computer pauses itself. This saved my ears. But my neighbours had a different idea of silence. Please, do not think my neighbours are ordinary people. By ordinary, I mean a boring someone, who closes doors and watches movies from 0500hours. Now, my not-ordinary nieghbours were 'celebrating' or whatever it is that people call it. What do you call, a daylong drinking spree with insults here and there and where you dont get to speak of anything except alcohol, women and other weird stuff. I find drunkards very sloppy(no offence). Back to the story, my neighbours celebrate. Three men and three women. Again, in what world does a man bring his woman to the drinking den? Anyway, my neighbours get into an argument, and they are now yelling in the middle of the night. I swear it was 0048hours. And then, this woke me up.

I stood by the balcony and the cold was kind. I watched. The men were shouting, why did you make a fist? The women were, Hebu muwache? I am going to describe my neighbour, He is tall, and huge and with dropping lips. You know the kind of lips, which would mispronounce words. Oh, my neighbour is a policeman. He threatened everyone. To pick them up and lock them up. At this point, the noise is going down. People are afraid of getting locked up. I realized that, we know very little about the law. This is a person, having a civilian fight, not implementing any law or responding to any emergency. In any case, he was breaking the law with his friends and now, he is using the law to threaten them to submission.

I watched and wondered. Why would such a man exist? My mind had to take me back. I imagined how life might have been for my neighbour? probably, he had to deal with people making fun of his body and mouth. He endured it. Lucky for him, the government gave him some power, and the only way to survive is to be the bully. He has to bully his way out of arguments. I fear, that one day, my neighbour will do something bad. 

Thats how a perfect party was ruined. 

Moments in Life.

 There are moments in life, when all we want is tenderness. Someone to just hold you, in a quiet embrace.

Someone whose heartbeat tells you that, everything will be okay. Tight and safe. 

There are moments, where you dont even trust yourself, to be alone. Because your mind wanders, to difficult moments. Moments of hurt that, you are afraid to be alone with the pain. Even for the worst of us, May the universe grant us people who offer tenderness. Everyone deserves tenderness once a while. 

Quieting the Disquiet- A Response to the one I love

#Lilac prediction, HDWallpaper

I still want to float into a flowery dreamland

But 

All I have is hurt

A pain that hurts my skin, my nails, my hair and

The bottom of my sole

It makes me want to stay in a pile

Instead

My looks like that of a mad woman

Consumed in the fury

The anger

It makes me pull my hair and knit it

into angry little knots

The knots drop into my chest 

And I am choking 

with painful tears!!

It is the disquiet-

It makes me awake

Sweaty with nightmares

My skin pale

I want to run, that my feet would hurt and not my heart

Disquiet beating heart

Wanting to scream and tear gates 

of tears 

and blood

Pain

I am hurt and I want to scream

My guts out

That my ears deafen

That, for a moment

I will forget 

I live in a world with people

Who breathe

Who shake the earth as they move

Who sing in dance

Which world is that?

And the disquiet 

Makes me awake

For my questions remain unanswered

The frenzy in it!!

This is my letter to you

This is where you left me

Even flowers turn into monstrous frost

Cold and white

Just like my heart.

P.S. 

 

Love is attached to something. It is not the emptiness of worlds, or the swarm of feelings. It is solid. It is peace. With love, the world is full and the swarm stays intact. 

Queting the Disquiet

                                                                    #Photo by Joe McDonald

Do not dare call me crazy

I understand disturbance in the water, 

I feel my hair stand, 

I can sense when the predator watching

Sizing me, 

Pawing

Gnawing

With saliva

Feet ready to pounce

It is like a feeling at the back of my neck

It is ugly 

It does not give me rest

Disquiet

With 'might'- Less

You sharpen your teeth

Your mistake, 

Looking at my tail,

My unseen self

I am a cat 

Ferocious

Charged

Quiet!

Judging me for not taking flight

For not being the decent

I am disquieting the quiet

Ready 

To pounce back

With malice

Because I understand that, you will show no mercy

The disquiet