On my best days, I am at one with myself. Some days, it’s frightening to see how far I have come. Who would have thought that she’d be nothing if not tethered to someone or something? Yesterday, I sat in my own silence for a while, and it was quiet. Well, thank God for SSRIs, because for a long time it was always a loud, noisy concert in my head, a never-ending loop of conversations, an unlimited debate time for panelists: Tobare and Tobare, the expert analysts. In a quiet corner is little Tobare, sobbing and crying for attention. Sometimes she screams. Sometimes she wails. But yesterday, she was quiet. Yesterday, she smiled with her beaming white teeth, beckoning for me to play with her. She danced as all the others vacated the space. As she moved, the more they cleared. She danced and laughed until she was soothed to sleep. Yesterday, she was happy, and she isn’t worried about today.

  I asked the DJ to play me a soft song. He said, “Fine, I know what you mean by soft song.” A medley of strings and piano followed, voiceless melodies that soothed my ears and soul. But then I realized how sad it sounded like a loss, like the cello was weeping and the piano was groaning. I wondered why it comforted me. Was I sad? Was I trying to empathize with the untold and unknown pain of this nameless composer? Did he or she see through me, see the fissures that needed to be woven together by the strings? Were the chords there to muffle my pain a pain of unknown source, with no name and no aim, floating effortlessly through my mind and body? I looked at it in defeat, knowing I couldn’t hold it, much less capture it. Perhaps these songs give me closure, and comfort in the knowing that pain is always somewhere, floating quietly within me.

    The Familiar Places My Parents Call Home The places my parents call home feel strangely familiar — not because I know them well, but because they live so vividly in my imagination. Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about those places. There’s a peace that clings to them — a calmness in villages where time seems to have paused. Especially my mother’s village. My mum is a storyteller, and I hope I’ll be able to share her stories with the world someday. When she describes scenes from her childhood, it’s hard to imagine that a place so slow and seemingly forgotten could hold such colour, adventure, and life. Visits to a Forgotten Time I have been to my mother's village at least three times in my life, and if it was more than that, I must have been too young to remember. What captivated me was how it seemed like everything had... stopped.  Youth, vigour, adventure, and even  hope — they all seemed to have quietly left. Between the beach-like sand, the scent of r...

Something has changed within me.  A yearning for the first time for more.  Is it greed? is it ambition?  For a life I know is out there.  I dream of the days when my days will be enough.  When I'd laugh without any hindrances and perhaps even love.  Yet, a resistance in my soul holds me hostage from these things within my grasp.  I wrestle every day for my happiness.  If you pass by me you might feel a warmth you never felt before.  I had resigned myself to my fate, that I could only do so much as she let me.  Perhaps I now believe the words, I have heard all my life.  It has occurred to me, how much I have denied myself.  Is it the devil whispering "master be kind to yourself?"  Should I take his hand and perch on his wings?  Or is it just my time? A time that I glued its hands together waiting for another's time to strike. The gates I once thought were shut have been opened wide ajar.  I am grasping the suspend...

What if hope was but a forgotten song, Silenced by the cacophony of our worries. Unaware of how our story would unfold, we sought solace in the familiarity of our pain and raised our hands in solidarity, Only to be broken by defeat. And then we grasped our pitchforks and hoes, marching into battle we couldn't name. Imagine if we'd trusted the system  of potbellies, grey heads and crafty tongues. And rooted our hope in the transient, in tales left incomplete. Imagine if we'd had no one to listen to our cries, petitions and prayers. what if we had no supreme being to grant us understanding, then we'd all take turns at the altar of despair to end our worthless lives.

Feelings, a delicate dance of fear and admiration. Why do they stir such dread within me? When directed towards others, a rush of excitement and joy envelops me. Yet when turned inwards, or aimed at my very being, a wave of panic crashes over me. These emotions, so precious, seem too weighty for my fragile grasp, akin to offering a child to a towering dinosaur. What end awaits them? A grand display like Mighty Joe Young? A wild embrace akin to Tarzan? Or a swift consumption, like a lion upon its prey? Will they be devoured like paper to flame? I grapple with the notion of why one would entrust me with such priceless sentiments. Should I nurture them? Protect them? Admire from afar, then bid farewell when the moment fades? In the ballads of love that shaped my youth, I glimpsed the profound essence of affection, moving me to tears. To think such depth of emotion could be bestowed upon another human, not bound by blood. I marvelled at this capacity, witnessing the eternal cycle of love r...