I don’t want to want.

Hands

Abraham: The Noun Project.

I want to stop wanting. I want to stop saying I want to do this, I want to do that.
I want to stop thinking I want to go here, I want to see this. I want to feel that.
I want to stop dreaming. I want to experience things, live some kind of life.
I want to stop wishing. Wash away the ifs, the maybes and the could have beens.
I just want to stop wanting.

You realise I’m still wanting as I’ve used ‘wanting’ twice minus this and ‘want’ thirteen times, plus this, with more to come.
I need to stop that and start living. Then I can say I have done this, seen this, and lived that.

Every night I close my eyes, my perfect life starts, dreams upon dreams, all nice and sweet.
There isn’t a night a nightmare has lingered around. It’s been a decade and counting.
Life is perfect, with my eyes shut. I want perfect with my eyes open as well.
There we are again, with wants; which are very well known to be insatiable. A bottomless pit.

We can want, we can crave, we can desire. We can choose to feed our needs or we can let them starve.
It won’t kill us, it won’t maim us. It passes, and normal prevails.
Normal prevails! No, that’s the winds that are procrastination and escapism.
It’s comfortable, it doesn’t itch, and neither does it hurt. That’s the normal.
But when it passes, when it all passes you by, that’s when you wake up.
That’s when you realise that wanting, and not experiencing isn’t living.
That’s when you get to know your normal is wanting and wanting isn’t enough.

It’s the normal that I’m fighting with, that normal, my normal.
My normal is a liar, my normal is a cheat. It’s the ugly devil in disguise.
My normal feels procrastination is the safest zone. Stall until it’s alarmingly close.
Stall until it’s about too late, and then, pass. “You can’t do it, it’s too late now.”
My normal thinks silence is the best cure, the best revenge, the harbinger of time.
They say time heals, right? If time heals, then silence feeds time.
Shut out everything deafening and let the tide pass, for with time it passes.

The life we ought to live isn’t in the shelter, it’s the tide.
Either you wet your hair, soil your hands and tighten your sails.
Or cower and lament after, wish upon the horses and want what you can’t get.
Watch as others build empires and wonder if they serve a different God.
You start questioning your destiny, your luck and everything around you.
You drown, for the storm knows no shelter, as you never learnt to navigate the tide.
Water through your nose, water in your lungs, you fill up.
You either realise you are dying and fight, or give up and sink.
The beauty about life is there’s always a saviour at the shore, waiting.
Family, Jesus, stranger or friend. You won’t see the saviour but they’ll see you.

I don’t want to first get on that ship to realise I should have done most of the work on land.
I don’t want to regret not having sifted through rubble and dust for the gem that is life.
I don’t want to be reminded I didn’t walk enough on the ground beneath my feet.
I don’t want to chase the moon and the sun when it’s too late.
I don’t want to want. I just want to live. And live I shall.

Well. Fare thee well, Well.

I’ve been quiet all this time. But not anymore. Infact, I’m done.
Silence is never empty, it’s full of answers.
Just like I’m always full, full of life.

Your ancestors have been to me, I’ve fed them, I’ve quenched their thirst, I’ve filled their pots.
I’ve been a confidant to their secrets.
A testimony to their beingness.
I haven’t expected a modicum of discernment from them. Not for a moment.
I haven’t asked for anything from them.
I haven’t complained, not for a single time.

Your Children have played around me.
Every morning from bed. As they wash out shnooters from their eyes.
Every evening after school. I love it when they discuss their homework as they graze goats. Reminds me of when I was young.
One or two has pulled out his elongation  and peed on me while his friends aren’t looking. I’ve felt offended.

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I’ve tamed my anger and haven’t  swallowed, eaten one up.
Lord knows I’ve tried. And it’s been.
Their balls have hit me in the face.
It’s hurt but I always dust my face and return their balls.
Their goats have drank from me, with their unblushed teeth and nose dripping of mucus. Their cows too. It’s too much.

I’ve seen many a woman’s creation. But I haven’t told a soul. Those that don’t cover their slit, I’ve gazed. And they and I share a resemblance until they cut those bushes. I like looking but I’ve overgrown that.
I only listen and can’t look beyond my lips, and if I did, it’d be the blue sky of day and the stars at night over and over again.
The bushes around have told me alot.
They say they have seen men unbuckle their belts, lower their trousers and shamelessly leave a heap of nasty things.
They’ve seen women’s navels as soap and water caress their body. And sponge scrub their frame.
They’ve held their clothes as they purify.
They’ve heard Ssengas spit chants and pull flesh.
They’ve seen alot, and they’ve intimated to me. I know. Everything. And say nothing.

I won’t say I’ve seen your neighbor get naked and do bad business with your daughter on the grass that covers my belly.
I won’t say I’ve been soaked by the blood and more that spilled on that grass.
I won’t tell you how she cried, laughed and cursed all in unison. I won’t.
I won’t tell you nothing, it’s our secret; the vultures, the sky and I.
Even God doesn’t know. He must have been reading a book, he didn’t look, he didn’t see. I didn’t tell.

Vultures have circled above me. I’ve only been left with empty dreams of flying, soaring high in the skies.
If I could fly, I’d never have to feel the excruciating pain in my eyes.
These birds throw their flying toilets straight in my eyes and there isn’t a single thing I can do. I can’t even visit an optician. It hurts.

It hurts I don’t sleep. I can’t sleep.
I’d love to. Like you do, but can’t. Mosquitoes buzz in my ear all night. Crickets compete for my audience and owls for my attention.
I’m always awake, counting stars, listening to the frogs snore.

I’m tired. Let me return to middle earth to my father’s father’s dwelling. Deep down.
I’ve been here a thousand years, I’ve seen alot. I’ve heard alot. I’m tired.
I’ve said too much today, I’m tired.
Hope all will be well when I’m gone.
I’m tired. Let me dry up as the good old well I’ve been.

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