Wihangane Kikazi.

A friend of mine, well we are not friend-friends,not yet at least because we’ve never met. We just have a thing or two in common, share a few ideologies and a craze for muffins. *That should best define Twitter. This friend of mine had a horrible year, 2015. Normally on Twitter Boulevard all you get is an IKR reply, half a re-tweet, a misplaced favorite and/or ‘I totally relate ‘and it ends there, seeps to the ground. *Kwish never to be seen again.

Well 2015 was quite the opposite to me, it was exactly what’s written on those Christmas and New Years Cards. A prosperous  New Year. I didn’t win a jackpot, didn’t get married *I value marriage so highly. Neither did I become CEO of my own company or buy an iPhone 7.

I resumed reading, a novel here, a book there, big or small. I got deeply buried in books once so many times and escaped my surroundings completely, took up the character in the book and felt like Superman, not Batman.  Best feeling in the world.

I used to read any book that came my way, whichever way  and trust me mine was the Broadway street, the Route 256, Thika road of sorts. ‘A book is a book, and the relic is within the reader,’ I so believe.  But I hadn’t read any book in 3 years. I also didn’t know why.

2015, I resumed writing. See reading as is writing, is to the brain what stone is to knife. Those little form 1, form 2 boys who would be hired like to pen down pulsating  letters for the ladies in the other school by the big boys, you remember them. I used to be one of those. A rare hunted species who would take the fall every time things went South but nothing when the silky words got the maesters ‘down there’.

Imagine for 3 years, nothing would I write that didn’t end up in that dreaded place, the Drafts-Zone. I was that pathetic. Nearly at everything. The gates were open but the soul was captive. One step out, two back, sometimes three. It was confusing, it was annoying. It wasn’t me.

2012. That year had hurt me real bad. It had left a septic wound in places I couldn’t reach. Three years to heal, and the healing left a scar. A scar that entrammelled anything positive. The wound might hurt, but a scar really pains for what it is now and what it used to be.

emdsssptiness

My friend, the one I haven’t met yet. The one whose only picture I have, is a figment of my imagination. To her, seems the year 2015 was a genre of my 2012. A year when nothing makes sense. When the gods have hit procrastination mode and don’t want to hear your cries, your prayers.

Seems 2015 went ‘Revenant’ on her, full throttle. I might not have fully known her predicament then, but I knew all wasn’t well. I could feel it in my bones. I wanted to fall in and lend a shoulder but from experience, a shoulder lent to a stranger is incalculable and quite the heavy toll. Because you both never know what to expect.

To her I totally relate. I could just Tweet about it, sometimes Retweet, but what is life if you don’t go the extra mile. For everyone who had a tricky 2015, I hope you can move on, heal and get to see the beauty that life is. Know we love you, the earth loves you, just a little faith, hope, patience and all will be well.

 

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