For three years or maybe three months …
You study her from the point her neck spreads on her shoulders and wander with delight how easy it is to kiss there as opposed to her lips. You crave to passionately theorize her lips and supplement any practicals with an everlasting damnation. Deep inside you know what it’d feel like to experience the longevity of a turbulent kiss because she stupefies you, fascinates you and like jungle of concrete you wish you could negotiate with the skies to conjure hailstorms so that you can remain standing at the same place. If only she should hesitate and look across to see who will remain with her after nature takes its toll. You want to shore her up so that should she feel alone, you will take her hand and tell her you’ll never leave just like you promised another girl who you wanted so badly to get intimate with on your 18th birthday. You keep it a secret that it was that day you felt fully entitled and when you suffered blue balls you had this irreparable ego that catapulted you into the realms of unrequition.
Now, you are getting old running, walking, crying, despairing and sometimes you are not even sure what you are going through. You are in your early twenties experiencing something people call quarter life crisis yet to you its full blown. You feel guilty with the way your faith is on a collision and each morning you wake up, you are sure you can smell your sick soul. But life is happening and you are afraid of what the future holds since in some way, you feel life passing you by and later dragging you along. You started out so well in life you suppose but a numbing feeling in your heart seems to rouse your senses and you are beginning to realize how much all the girls you meet taste the same and why you keep altering the same poetry and realigning each line to suit your new fantasy until you feel disappointed.
You have this strange habit lingering closer to you each waking day like a parasitic disease that has refused to go away. Each kiss, each touch, each moment of sex, each rejection and obsession you still feel inadequate. Yet you tear away gutlessly at your skin in moments of solitude and if at all any pleasure is achieved it leaves you feeling shameful, disoriented and without purpose. But there remains out of all these a special kind of girl who you want so badly and no matter the times you have had her in front of you or touched and kissed her, she still intrigues you by her mystique and how her eyes seem like petal storms you never seem to understand. She basks in the moment knowing too well how easy it is to replace you should you even feature in her itinerary but “bollocks” you shriek at the gutless thought and recall nostalgically how your hands sparked each time she held your hand. Then she will read what you write and by Jove she will not be alone, other girls you have seen are there and they’ll say “this is meant for me.”
It is so easy to convince yourself that you have your life in order and you have been taught to be a man and be steady in all circumstances. You cannot recall the number of times you have taken the toll of life and love with a straight face and walked away without lamenting. Yet deep inside you feel the bottling up of everything is now decaying you inside and what you should have done all those years and now is to find somewhere to go cry. Habit is institutionalized and you have no idea how it feels to shed a tear and you are not about to start now. It feels like pretence to you only you know that when all the forces will settle on your feet, it will be easier escaping from metal chains than them.
It is far easier to be artistic and fill the world with pieces of relatable art that you want to remain for some time. Yet as your twenties roll by, you know you have to stop letting some of the people you meet and love be important as a matter of urgency. Poems are everlasting creatures and the more the puzzle of accuracy the longer they will remain. So which girl do you want to remain in history? Does she make you proud even after she’s gone?
Men of greater stature, intellect, poetic fortitude have walked past food stores to pursue the desires of their hearts when all they needed was a nice meal. In that, each thing you do should not compel you to be her poet, her chronicler. It is embarrassing enough for people to later read of your desperation when you are old and ask who the lover was only for you to answer you do not remember. There are those of us who know age will rid us of poetry or will slow us of this gift once we find a way to pray again. At that time the only thing that should matter is would she want to be the protagonist in your new novel you call your life?
(C) Eddy Ongili 2015