Random Stirrings of The Mind.

A couple of days ago, someone admirable recommended Matt Haig’s bestseller, “The book of comfort”. He succinctly remembers that early-noon class, a backbencher notwithstanding, her rather audible undertones quipped, “Matt Haig will rattle your wits,” and true to those words, the pearly comforting words, some a one-pager, others a single sentence; are becoming a closer companion. Matt talks about the noun “Mess” in one of the pages and this piece struck quite home, especially on how this day, the 13th of the first month of the start of autumn. Trees outside, show the tell-tale signs of hue flaxen and aureate. The easterly weather is toning down to a cool and bristle feel. He woke up with the heaviness of an awry feel down the pits of the stomach. And true to that, two hammers had dropped in a day. In that piece, Matt quips that the hardest thing to be is oneself. He points out that we are so overloaded that we cannot always see the truth of who we are. We turn to distraction sometim

"A society grows great when old men plant trees the shade of which they know they will never sit in. Good people, do things for other people, without expecting anything in return."  A bit of a reflection; he has the least of grappling to discern where this is headed. Well, it is said, may the flow have its way.  Amongst the days where light has shone on bare "knuckles", there is an epitome of consciousness that has nothing to do with being sane or present. Well, the mind is miles away from what many will say is sanity or even satisfaction...  There is an old alibi that belts off the music system; one that declares how old souls we are. he reminiscences the year 1998, like it was yesterday, noontide, clear skies, calm with a humid waft of air from the midlands of the Rift; with a constant flutter of winds and warm tufts of air rising from the green fields of freshly weeded maize plantains. he could feel minute droplets of water on his face, yet the sky wa

Of restful days, where time wills away like a sundial, Unstoppable, eons of ticks and turns … This a day, like few in the past, Where hand wraps around ink and the mind synchronizes with the present. It has been days of nothingness; Excruciating moments of doubts, unawares, and a constant flow, Growing, learning, and expanding borders. Today, like the few limited occasions where the hand meets ink, where the mind rhymes to the tune of the ages… The pen speaks of new beginnings, new experiences, and new joys. This little jolt comes from an unknown space… One yet to be harnessed, but full of promise. One thing has stood out, man is no island … We feel, we experience, and we express. Limitless borders of expansion. Outstretched, the arm gropes for a light, Amidst the vast expanse of growth… Scary face… Call code that washes my head in forever, I know there is hope, in these waters, Nonetheless, I can hold onto my hopes whilst drowning. The freedom of the skies; that st

We exist in times where affection is left to wait at the last table of a coffee shop or packed up in some dark storage locker where only casual  entanglements are in demand. Where people come and willingly serve themselves with the same cocktail of heartbreaks, disappointments and pain because it’s ‘casual’ and ‘cool’. A trend that sets on a short high and a facade of temporary pleasure. Emotions and feelings are relegated to a corner, unnoticed and laughed at because old school romance is probably not in trend in the shallow-hit-me-quick, that we have shrouded ourselves in.  It’s besetting, isn’t it? That we find it easier to disappear rather than face what fate has placed before us. We casually throw words around such as “break” and “space”  wishfully thinking that everything would just magically work out after some time, and even if it doesn’t, it’s fine because that’s how the world we live in now defines love. Unions are no longer about staying and facing the problems t

Two paths lead to a greater understanding of a broken heart. One is to imagine it broken in tiny little shards, some ground to dust; left to be scattered about by the wind—a feeling most of us behold, and a fate we wouldn't even wish our enemies. Flip the coin, picture a heartbreak that opens it up into a new capacity—a process that cannot escape pain, but one that many a person would welcome.  As the world passes by, standing in the tragic gap between possibility and reality, that fistful thing called heart can break open to hold more of what the world readily gives; to hold more of what one goes through; the world's suffering and joy, successes, and losses, despair and hope, Forgiveness. But still, it beats, albeit with occasional flutters, but it keeps going.  Every minute of life without forgiveness is existence separated from the sacred and from the most basic of instincts bestowed upon our hearts. Living every moment with forgiveness to ourselves, to others, and even to t

If today, that little veil covering the small steps of our lives is lifted, will we have enough of face to show the scars of time or stand tall and proudly display the plaques of amazing feats that we've achieved? Will we be able with unwavering demeanor, show the world the number of skeletons in our closets and those silent achievements earned over time? Or will we cower in abject shame as all is laid bare for everyone to see? Today, under the fluorescent dimness of the yellow reading lamp, he slights his palates with the sweetness of condiments sourced from random walks around malls, albeit the cold; a mix of frozen vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry sweetens this 1 am circus. The halls are silent, except for some occasional slow and sometimes fast patter of a random night owl, going for a tinkle.  The new year is a bit laggy, maybe because of a long-awaited break from the normal constantness of haunting lecture halls, and the dreary atmosphere surrounding midterms. It's a re