inspiration: do not be angry with the rain


dont be angry with the rain


“Do not be angry with the rain; it simply does not know how to fall upwards.”-Vladimir Nabokov








i love summer. i was born during summer. maybe that’s why i love summer. i love the stillness of sunlight. no wind. just warmth. bubbles of light. the sun goes down rather late (Cape Town summer evenings are spectacular).. the sun rises early. prompting and prodding an early start. polka dot dresses. sunny dresses. sandals – my toes relish the liberation. wet beach sand against my skin. cool breeze after the sun goes down.

or maybe what i love the most about summer is the mood. sunny means smiley. smiley means happy. happy translate to general goodness. wholesomeness.

sometimes the heat can be unbearable. and when it seems like the sky can’t take it. it rains. tears of relief.

inspiration for this post: saw the image featured here (and the title of this post) on A Small Press Life, a blog I follow…

book project: blue is not a happy colour

Blue is not a happy colour, only the illusion of a reflection on the seablue

High up in the clouds, behind a fluff of white.

Blue is not a disease,

It’s a Russian novel.

Blue is not a happy colour

Because it breezes past your cheek

like it was never there

Blue is not a happy colour

because it leaves you behind,

feeling robbed. Railroaded.

So the decision to track it back to day one just came to me. Ignited by the need to claim my spirit back. The drama of my life unfolded here. Little did I know back then. Otherwise I would have made an effort of taking in the details. Now I am like that victim who had no clue that she would have to return on her own. And have to recall the journey on instinct. I had quit my job. Paused my life. Pondering what I wanted to be. I needed to be more than what I was becoming. Or at least afraid of becoming.

That smell hits my face. It is cold. A room with white tiles. Sparsely furnished. Saggy sofas arranged around the room that looks more like a public clinic lobby than someone’s home. My home. At least what used to be my home.

‘Papa’, I call out to him. There is no answer.

I drop my bags in the adjoining kitchen. It is spotless. All these plastic containers arranged all over the empty spaces.

I walk back towards his bedroom. There he is. Sleeping on his back. I can hear his shallow breathing sounds. Is he alive? I wonder. I inch closer to his bed. He still doesn’t move.

When did he start losing his mind?

living with the walking dead is not easy…

 the anxiety and stress has a way of seeping through…

 no matter how thick your caring skin may be..

 when it reaches the bones… deep down..

 you can’t help but pray for divine intervention…

 for a miracle…

 a permanent solution…