Focal Point

"I should have been more sympathetic to you. I should have stood by you. I have been by your side for a while now, I have learnt the history, seen the people and experienced the world through your eyes. It made me realise that, as a white person, I'm at home pretty much anywhere. While you have to justify your existence even in your own country. I will never know what it's like to walk in your shoes, but I promise, I will be more empathetic to you and every other black person. I will do my best to be there and to speak up. That's my biggest regret - that I was not empathetic to you at your most vulnerable. I'm sorry, Protus. " "Thank you for this." I said, taking her hands into mine and squeezing them gently, "I know it was hard for you to come to terms with that failure, but we learn, and grow. And I am glad and proud to have watched you grow." "Growing is the least I can do." She said with a nervous smile. "It's

My Becoming I sit in my silent muse Wondering just what it would take To let go of memories of me and you Of what we were, and used to do I torture through the redolence shelves Like pushing against a firm mountain Swimming in an ocean without a shore Or getting caught in an unending storm If roses grow from memories, I have a vibrant orchid Of white and red, a bed of you and me The joy that you bring The talk of youth and being I then, pray, that time on my memory puts a blemish As you have on the good I still cherish That as I lay my head upon a battered pillow Find myself lost in a new sun-bathed meadow No more thoughts of you and me Just me, myself and my being My comings, my goings and my becoming .

My continued occupance of this same spot for years is a damning inditement to my desires for a better life. From a ferocious, violent want for a better life,  now I trundle along like a rudderless ship, my desire for more, now nothing but calm waters lapping gently on the shores. If it indeed gets better, well and good, if it doesn't, how sweet is death? I've seen them come and go, the good and bad times,  and the hopes and despair, and hope cloaked as despair, despair disguised as daunting deliriums How I wish I could turn back the clock, go back to being naïve and full of blind hope, with a keen eye for reality,  but still a bit obtuse But I guess I face reality, a reality too bleak to stare into, shining with rays of a thousand, five hundred suns, biting deeper than a burning pain from a knifing heartbreak, like the burning sensations from a broken bone... Or should I take some time off, a short break from life, from obligations, from work, from hobbies, from dreaming,