Today, allow me to digress a bit from my weekly narrative of obscure stories. I am working on an intriguing piece on Maori women for the upcoming week’s Newsletter. Since it is a sensitive topic, I want to proceed with utmost care while writing about them. Therefore, I am taking more than usual time to research, organize and structure the essay.
However, your constant faith in me pushes me forward to achieve what sometimes seems like an arduous attempt to walk on a steep slope. I want you to know that I am deeply grateful that you chose to put your faith in me. Therefore, I will dutifully keep my promise to deliver Berkana's Weekend Newsletter.
In today’s segment, I want to introduce you to a more creative and evocative essay style. My intentions are to slightly indulge you in what I call - 'singing prose'. This work is born out of my fevered passion, in an attempt to respond to the calling of a creative life. It sways from one allegory to another, exploring the polarities of emotions associated with creativity. The joy, isolation, and angst one feels in the chaotic yet meditative journey of creativity.
I hope you enjoy reading this, while I scurry away to bring many other obscure stories to the spotlight of culture in the subsequent editions.
If you like Berkana, please share it with your friends.
I write in dreams of grey-blue silence floating
like pink effervescent puffs of vaporized thoughts.
Someone knocked from behind my eyelids,
whose arrival propelled me to my feet,
like a crane awoke from her one-eyed sleep,
whose musings are hushed like soft breaths on lover’s neck,
The night breeze is still wild with grief,
a perfect companion for a lonesome soul
Solitude masquerading as cold and quiet hours
This heart fuelled with passion, burns like an inextingushable flame
I hear the rhythmic mutters of a voice that keeps me out of my bed.
The blankness of the paper at the other end of my pen urges me to create,
Like the trees produce in blossoming spring
Like the sky creates the thundering storm
Like the spider spins its web in abandoned crevices.
Like the river shapes its path in the ebb and flow
Like the bee builds its intricate architectural home.
I paint the sky with the same stars but in different hues of words,
I write them down in countless ways to make a motion frame of each picture.
Like an artist in his attic, drawing a landscape as he pours dread and morose behind the blindfolds of the darker gradients of the colors.
I rise and fall in the terrain of desire where dreams dances with naked joy, screaming ecstasy into meaning and turning fantasy into a song
I write to run with my mind as one runs with their feet, these words protect my heart from shrill insanity
There are no hallowed paths, not the ones that bifurcate at a gate of a righteous act, there are no bad words claimed back, ones that fell silently from the lips perched by infinite prayers for freedom
My words demand my release from the house of translucent gods
These eyes are drunken with sorrow,
in empty encounters of unholy shadows.
Beyond the right and wrong of this strangeness of being, the normal that often holds us straight, back arched with rusted pride from having survived the irony of fate.
Whose treasure vault got threatened at the break of dawn?
The one who cannot be trusted in the darkest hours.
Transcended into a sleepless dream, the one where red snow smothers the blue land, I hope to be rescued by the indifference of normality and boredom of mind.
I hear the whisper again, this time it aches my bones, the pulsating pain or throbbing of a vein, or the urge of crossing the imaginary limits of mind.
I escape into the void of imagination, in the tryst for the salvation of the soul.
I can taste the night as it becomes darker at its edges, like a tunnel closing upon the passer-by only to open up at the center.
If I could sleep tonight I would dream of a world with a million trees,
where roots are considered worthy of beauty’s attention and the flowers are just trivial fruits.
Of a world where greatness isn’t rare and anarchy is the norm
Where everyone extends with arms reaching out, their superhuman capacity to love and devout
May the world rest its eyes dreamlessly
while mine burns like the North star,
Awakened, to guide the muted ones through the rusty bridges of fear.
I will use my recklessly brave heart as a treasure map to freedom from despair .
If you didn’t understand what it is about, don’t worry about it. I didn’t either. It is not perfect, it is not supposed to be. Too many people play by the rules and become transactional and boring. They get so focused in an attempt to make sense that they forget that writing is also a form of art, and art demands experimentation. Sometimes we should just let the words fall free and let them take us on a roller-coaster ride of emotions.
I will see you again next week, till then stay well and don't forget to breathe loudly.