Afrosays to me

…random excerpts from my communions with the AfroMuse

Night, Day August 7, 2012

Filed under: Abstract,Laconic — afrosays @ 5:13 pm
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@readjerome shares a laconic piece with us today. Share warmth.

 


Twin fruits of the clime, both to savour. But I suffer one.

 


NIGHT, DAY

 

…night is my comforter…

 

Night is my comforter, boy. For I have lost my eyesight, and it pleases me more than a little to know that it would’ve served me no purpose when the Sun goes home, and the shadows stop following man’s step. When light is but a small fire, an occasional firefly or glowworm to tease the darkness, of what use are your eyes than to frustrate you? To tickle your desire to see and mock your inability. My old ears and nose can fare me better through the night than your eyes, boy. Night is the leveler.

 

But Day son, the day, I cannot stand. I hear your voice, the voice of a man, yet I vision the face of a boy. I hold unto your thick arms and think how muscular they must be, but all I remember is the look of your tiny hands clasped in mine. I smell the perfume of your wife; I hear the jingle of her anklets and the songs she sings for fallen warriors, and yet all I recall is the tiny girl I brought home after her father was slain in battle. It is then I need my eyes, son. To visit your mother’s grave, to pull out the weeds with my hands, and replace the flowers. The Day is the torturer.

 

 
 

 
 

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Shadow Tail October 18, 2011

Filed under: The Trench — afrosays @ 3:29 pm
Tags: , , ,

Ahoy!

This is the dawn of another night.
The night has long been abused, they call it a time of sorrow, a time of gnashing of teeth; they say the sun cometh in the morning…
May the sun never come!
I am of lunar soul, trenchant knucklehead, me. I love the night! All my neighbours, they have been eaten by the monster they call home and in the belly of the beast, they are silenced, even if for a while.
I am outside tonight. Shirt off!
The streets are clean. The air is clean. The internet is clean. More importantly, the dimension we call Thought Express, it is clean. Brain traffic is at a minimum and we need the scarce bandwidth to be who we are.
I stretch. I launch myself on the comet, ShadowTail, and we project.
Who am I?
Who are we?
Did you ever see a beam of joy, like a pulse, like the shadow of a comet, race down your streets three a.m. in the morning?
Slow down that vision.
Did you ever imagine that what you saw was a half-naked child with a head full of black fibers running down the road, his hands behind his back, holding a pulsing ball of brilliance? Did he have the most rapturous smile on his face? You dismissed that thought didn’t you?
I’d be around where you are if it is somewhere to be around. I’d be seeking that quintessential, picking up coins like dear Nintendo’s Mr Mario, leaping into the air for gold rings like Sega’s Mr. Sonic; If I ever crash, I’d be sure to remember that this existence is no PlayStation. I run parallel to what I aim to discover, it’s close but it’s perpetually inaccessible. I keep running however, hoping that these parallel lines cross at some point in the future and then the big ‘why?’ becomes an ‘oh really?’
One day I’d cover most of the world but I know I’d never cover all of it for these medals I pick up along the way, they weigh me down; these gold medals, they are excerpts of worldly wisdom. With each new coin or ring that I put in my purse, I lose some grab on the comet I ride on.
Pretty soon I might be walking on the road like those few old people I see on the sidewalks. They don’t look extremely happy but they seem content. Maybe I’d have enough coins and rings to buy me common sense, and my breakneck travel on Thought Express would be abandoned. Maybe some other kid, maybe my kid would hop on that comet and try to discover why the world is the way it is. Maybe I’d be the one telling him to take the world as it is, tempting him with a meager bag of coins.
I doubt it!
Why? ShadowTail and I are not the only ones that travel these parallel lines. If you’ve read this far with a smile on your face, the kind that betrays recognition, you’re with me, and company, even your company, makes even the most arduous journey sufferable.
Give PinkBeam a caress, or is he DarkWave? BlackBolt? WhiteFire? RedSpark? Is she PurpleStream? IndigoSea? ‘ColeurWing?
Count your coins, your rings, and let there be a chorus of cling-clangs in this fresh night air as we throw away the faulty wisdom we have discovered. Keep the trusty gold medals, you might eventually find enough to retire.
Hold your comet, your catalyst, your propellant with arms outstretched behind you.
Ahoy! Launch and run free!
And don’t forget to take your shirt off if you feel like it.
 

 
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