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4229 Miles


By definition, a home is where one lives permanently. Something recognised globally. Most would identify with the notion that “the strongest sense of home commonly coincides geographically with a dwelling. Usually the sense of home attenuates as one moves away from that point, but it does not do so in a fixed or regular way.“(Terkenli, T. S. 1995).

I agree with the latter, but cannot say the same for the conceptualisation on geography. I am a firm believer in the saying ‘the home is where the heart is’. The majority could and would interlink the two. Yet for me, home is not where I reside and execute the mundane chores of life… Instead it is approximately 4229 miles away. For being at home is very different from feeling at home.

Of course there is myriad of human factors, as well as familiarity that argue after 23 years, London is my home, the geographical area in which I have ties. Yet when I reflect on simply my innermost self or personal élan, where I feel at ease (free from pain, worry, or agitation) and most honest to my true being… Home would be called Kenya. Here I feel no constraints. I am whole and undivided. The confines of what makes me me and my surroundings blur and I here I can challenge the facets of my psyche. Who we are is tantamount to where we are.

It is impossible to acquire immunity from ones social and physical environment and the hurdles that they throw at you. But seeking out the place where one can rationalise, and live by what is important in the rawest sense is integral to happiness.

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Asteroid.


I can’t quite describe what happened. It was almost as though something flew out of the sky… Directed straight towards me with no uncertainty. Its purpose was to obstruct my path, and strike me full force in the face. An impact so large on an emotional scale that I would, in all my dramatic glory, liken its effects to the Cambrian Explosion. But to see someone riddled with even a hint of what I felt crippled me. I couldn’t help but take a sordid trip down memory lane. I’ve been so caught up in everything ‘hearts and flowers’ (pardon the Fifty Shades quote) that I’ve managed to distract myself from the occupational hazard of happiness… For it to be ripped away with no warning.

Moon Child


I’ve always preferred the wonder that is the moon. I know some people would dispute this and say how can one not prefer the days when the sun is high, exposed in full glory, warming one to their core? However, I find the moon soothing. It can be trusted. It has craters a plenty, a dusty surface unpolished. Yet the clarity, displayed when the sky is crystalline with no blemishes present, is unequivocal. Unprecedented even.  

The sun is for those who seek more than they can find, hungry. Despite, bursting with its entirety. The sun is estimated to be 416 times bigger than the moon. It is for those who can never be pleased or do not trust with what they are, their personal definition – in a permanent elixir of gluttony and unsatisfied lust that cannot be tamed. 

The mythology of the moon is based on instinct, ones reckoning with oneself. It is for those who know their definition, yet can sit with it at ease. No tampering needed. It is for those who trust their subconscious, the unspoken. I once looked at the sun, it felt unrequited. My burn for it was too great, hedonistic. When that sun was ripped away, and instead the sombre fuzziness of the clouds took place, not only was warmth and happiness ripped away but ones ability to trust ones judgement. Why would one put oneself in a position of imminent loss? 

Ride. 


It can all be fun and games, filled with laughter and joy. It can be home to things of exceptional beauty not before seen. It can be the beginning of a lifelong adventure or a fleeting moment of shared hedonism. The path can be treacherous with objects, obstructions, blurring the end point. But open arms cannot be folded. One must choose the one they share this journey with carefully, for one does not run with strangers through the night. Once intricate ties have been made, creating a magnetism, one can only hope that the path leads to unity, rather than a wedge of infinite existence. As the saying goes – one cannot ignore an elephant in the room.

However, if and when the last leaf drops and it is over, one does not want to remember it for its stark, unforgiving, hard truths. One wants to look back after darkness to find it riddled with blossom, light on everything. One cannot subject themselves to the trap of just seeing the bad, we have such a tendency to label things in the way they ended. Why can one not overlook the ending whether its been or yet to come, and instead ‘enjoy the ride’? For we do not label the end of ones existence with negativity just for they are no longer with us – we celebrate what was and take with us all the good. Have faith in the one you choose, ultimately trust yourself, take their hand indefinitely, and find delight in the bumps on the road.

The beauty that lies within something dead…


A fleshy velvety rose, is said to hold the beauty of all the lovers that have received such an iconic symbol. Its deep colour and soft touch I’m sure to most is exquisite, refined with delicacy and exuding infinite sentiment and devotion. This isn’t a new manifestation but historic, the ancient Greeks and Romans identified the rose with their goddesses of love, Aphrodite and Venus. Those titled as beautiful. But how can that be? Something so delicate cannot carry the burden of such emotion, for it will wilt. The demise of a rose is a certainty that cannot be unbound. It will allure you at first, but wait for it to transform, to morph into something different. Its silken petals will grow feeble. Its colour will drain. It will no longer be desired. It has been stripped of its mask. So tell me this, why is such a symbol labelled a confidante? Sub Rosa or “under the rose” for most, means to keep a secret, to swear allegiance. Yet I dont see it.

However, look upon that which is dried, there is no deceit to be found there, every crease is laced with sincerity, what you see is what you get. Its faded colour and brittle touch is displayed without reluctance. It does not bear false witness. Its beauty is undeniable. For it will not change, it will not work the magic of illusionists. Therefore, I find the beauty of a perished rose much greater than that yet to show its final form.

Temporary Madness.


Love is a temporary madness. It erupts like an earthquake – certain to subside. When it does, you have to make a decision. You have to conclude as to whether your roots are entwined so much so, that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness. Nor is it excitement. It is not the promulgation of promises claiming eternal passion. That is what I would define as being ‘in love’ – which any one could achieve or be deceived by. Love itself, is what is left over when being ‘in love’ has been buried away, flown the nest. This is both an art and a fortunate accident.

We had roots that grew towards each other, magnetism at its strongest. When all the pretty, yet distracting blossom has fallen from our branches are we one tree or two?