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