Little girl

 Oh, Little girl.

I know who I can see and talk to, and touch and laugh with and crush on and end up with.

I don’t know you virtual curate of social imperfection.

I don’t know you little girl.

I might seem interested, but don’t be fooled.

It is only but the cruelest of jests of this era; the online platform and its ruthless ironies.

What helps you and me pass the time is the mild hope that someone in this vast online populace, is interested in your musings that are posts of this and that.

In this scenario little girl, you are that someone.

Yes, it is definitely you, little one.

Just like everyone other juvenile female, you display an antithetically imperfect collection of seemingly worthwhile life events that consist what you would term as constituting a life, to connect with someone like me.

Yes; someone as grown, and as mature, and as accomplished, and as good looking as me.

It is a mission so vain in its essence: what would I possibly find alluring about your make believe living, little girl. I’m living your dream.

I know real adventures, not you.

I know the people I know; I don’t know you.

On this platform, I simply know of you. You are someone I consider after I have logged in or received yet another one of those messages, that as a gentle man I am obliged to reply. Learn from what I tell you, little girl.

 I know those I know, and I don’t know you.

I know who I have known; my friends. Not you selfie taker. Yes that particular one with the dorky glasses and the shiny sheen of your pink lips looked somewhat besotting, but only for a moment.

 I remember the girl I spent time with yesterday more. Yes, that one who told this awesome joke and caught my attention. I have a crush on her you know. I think I’m going to tell her. Wish me the best of luck.

I know those truly like me; not you philosophical fake.

You prod about the keyboard of your phone with those manicured fingers spewing ideologies that are tragic facades to me on the other side. Everything about your life thesis is wounded and dying a natural death, or at least will in the next couple of years. Soul mate? Perfect guy? Happy marriage? Life after death?  I fear for your fate naïve one. Yes you might have some promising insight for a girl your age, I’ll give you that. But I don’t know wishful thinkers, I know the people who are in the here and now with me; in the reality.

I know those I find interesting and like to talk to, not you little girl. I wonder how I tolerate such absurdities with every passing conversation that I laboriously endure. Young girls are often quite the chatters, especially when they are eager to impress. Loquacious I tell you. What have I to know about these boy bands of nowadays? What do I care for the concerts and parties that you miss because of a curfew? A curfew! Please I know the grownups that choose when they can get back home, not you little girl.

Leave me alone little girl. I haven’t the energy.

Yes, the online frenzy came in a time in which I still live and breathe. Yes, I have a Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and Whatsapp account like everyone else.

But just as you have them for the many people out there, comfort yourself with the fact that I as well have them for the many people that include you.

Talking to the physically invisible masses passes the time for me, just as it does for you. All we are doing here little girl, is passing time.

Nothing more, nothing less.

I know the people I know, not you. All those "forever together" and "happily ever after" memes must be taking their toll.

Grow up little girl so that the next time you see pictures of me with that cute funny girl from yesterday you will understand and indeed wish me the best of luck, instead of asking the “Who is she?” question.

I’m glad we had this talk little girl.

Likes me; likes me not.

The renegades and the rebels.

For the many ways my mind comes up with theories and conspiracies from threads, split into a million possibilities, I still don’t get why I fail to see it all the time. 

I can put the most random and absurd facts of life together, propose a deduction and be so darn right. 

I can tell that that guy is totally into that girl because he did this when she did that and she did this and that back. I can tell that maybe this person likes this kind of music or eats this kind of food. I can be so much better than Emma freakin Woodhouse at her own game.

But when it comes to the renegades, I’m suddenly such a rebel. I don’t know how it happens, I’ve just learnt that it does.

My close friends and I can readily admit that I usually miss the obvious; but the peculiar just gets me. Just like that and off I go wondering about this and that. I constantly am bugging my brother concerning his own thoughts on each peculiar matter that I find interest in; like a mad Sherlock Holmes pestering an always shrugging Watson. Yeah, we all see life in our own ways and the people around us must suffer because of it.

I love trying to understand peculiar people. I think inwardly it is because I relate with the need to be understood as well. Therefore, peculiar means those that are misunderstood most of the time, or even “ununderstood.” As a child, I always wished that I would be part of Miss Peregrine’s school for peculiar children because I would have so many cool friends and we’d be by ourselves; peculiar and all. Not like everyone unfortunately, but like us.

 Now that I am older that inclination stays with me in some ways, but I have learnt that the need to be understood is an obsession that can be a good and bad thing, especially when it come to the guys.

It is like in understanding them; I am constantly proving to myself that I can understand myself. Yes, in life we all want to figure ourselves out; know what our favorite food is, our worst colors, and our best music and so on. But in a way everyone can be so chill about it, and there I am after realizing I really like yoghurt, making plans about starting a yoghurt factory just for myself and maybe my favorite people.

And when you think about it like thrice, it is actually good to start a Yoghurt factory because it will help the economy; investments and employment and all the other advantages that I studied about in Econ class all those years ago. But is it really worth it getting excited over yoghurt that much? Some giggly voice inside of me is saying it is, of course but it isn’t really, I think.

Anyway, when it comes to the renegade guys and the turned-into-rebel girls, it gets dangerous.  Take these examples.

1.    1.   Beauty and the beast

Think about it. Why was Belle so into that Beast guy? She suffered from the same syndrome! The whole town was there singing about how she lived in books too much and then those ideas and fantasies in the books got to her! Yeah yeah yeah. It turned our great for her because the beast actually saw her kindness and concern for him and the curse was broken, but that was luck I tell you. Sometimes a beast could be a beast. The beast isn’t always some scarred thing that needs saving, the same way a frog is also just a frog and not some prince. Yes, this is me throwing a little shade to Disney on behalf of my now enlightened older self. As for the movie coming out soon….so help me God.  But you get my point yeah?*insert Gaston’s voice in this whole particular narrative*

2.      2. The twilight saga.

Think about it. Why was Bella so into vampires and werewolves? She suffered the same curiosity. Ok yess!!!! The guys in the books were super hot and all, but really. The guy tells you he is a vampire and you are all like “I’m not afraid.” She should have been. Or maybe it was a sort of charity coz you know I read this thing once that said vampires feed on blood coz they need Vitamin D and she was just being the friendly one. Maybe that gets her off the hook. But then!! A werewolf, even after she sees what one of them did to the love of their life. Smh. Sometimes a vampire could be a foodie, you know; like he is really into his sort of diet. But yes, it was such an amazing story that changed my life as a teenager. This review is also on behalf of my now enlightened older self.

3.     3.  Me and you.

Think about it. When you get too involved with people sometimes because you are trying to figure them out, it’s not fair. What if you don’t like what you find out about them? What if what you find out about isn’t as peculiar as you thought it would be? What happens to them then? What do they become to you?

We get so caught up about people because of what they look like on the outside and that’s what makes us want to get to know them. I mean, it isn’t always a bad thing, but sometimes it’s just selfish to them when we are somehow wrong, or realize that a friendship or relationship somehow can’t work, or when we are suddenly too attached because of all this research that has gotten into our heads and hearts about them.

Yes, we all love a bit of adventure. When the renegade walks through the door, all of us (at least some of us) are having our interest peeked a bit, or even a lot. The renegades make us the rebels and that’s so cool right?

We suddenly start plucking at petals playing likes me likes me not game, and suddenly procrastination is overthrown by curiosity as the mother of all invention. You rationalize everything until it makes sense that he is not a renegade and is instead that person you want him to be. So for everything to work you will have to strike compromises until you are the rebel in that particular story. The truth is we can't all be "Hosea" saving Gomer from her crappy life. Some amazing dream and hope can suddenly turn into reality's worst nightmare.

What I’m saying is the danger is truly that sometimes, the renegades are really renegades. When we want to be the rebels, we might actually turn into them, and that’s the most probable probability. 

Peculiar people are amazing people, but sometimes it’s for more than one reason. 

Now you see me, now you don't.

Fiduciary relationships

It has been mildly prosaic sitting through all these sessions about a little girl, with an older little version of herself relaying the facts of internal dissonance. After all, the court doesn’t care about your emotions and vendettas and broken hearts. It cares about the law and if it is respected and upheld. That might warrant the need for interpretation of the law or the basic application of it. We therefore turn to these very aspects as presented by the party in question, the writer of this blog. Hear then thus, her law governing fiduciary relations.* My ka own intro like in the olden times what!*

These in law are based on confidentiality and trust. They are a client-professional relationship, but with the solo plan I have been on since I joined campus, I am the client and I am as well the professional.

This mostly stems from the generic indecisive tendencies I usually veer into that cause an “on the fence” kind of situation. Take the example of the many times I have stared at the menus for eons trying to decide what shall fully satisfy and appease the palate. In the end, I settle with having “whatever the other guy is having.” While that other guy’s taste might completely suck, he chose to have it so there’s a humanly speaking probability that it is not all that bad.

My I’m-not-sure tendencies sometimes stem from indecision, and by that I don’t mean being spoiled for choice. I mean an inability from random absurd uncertainties. I mean I struggle to give into just anything or just everything.  However normal or whether it was because it was the way of life or, it was just people my age did, there is that skepticism or criticism that makes me indecisive and especially afraid of normalcy.

 Take identity for example. Concerning the university stage and social scene, and in light of the norms of campus like finally being a “grown up” with “a life” and “dreams” and always having a “good time,” all this can be broadly understood. I thus find myself doing pros and cons for very category. If I was this type of person, this would suck but the other thing would totally be awesome type of thing.The "who should I be" and "why should I be this person" questions.  I cant help but veer into the innominate. Should I bet the church girl? The cool girl? Or the cool-church girl? Aaahhh. I’ll just continue being the Christian? Yes, question mark.  

So to make it easier I just be by myself, for myself; not for the norms or the expectations or need for adventures. But not in a bambi-that-ka-lonely-girl type of way though. I just seems safer and easier, not to mention more convenient being who I have always been. I have found that I am most confused by the many voices around me. Introvert qualities from my mother, I guess if those things are genetic or hereditary or whatever.

The thing is it’s not always easy being by yourself, even when it is the right thing to do in some cases. Yet, I have learnt to believe in myself and not depend on others doing that for me. I have learnt that I do not have to share everything with someone for it to be appreciated or for me to be understood. Sometimes you understand yourself. 

I have learnt that the love of the Father is enough for me in those times I need to be by myself. I realize that He is who I should need alone more than anything. I have learnt to depend on Him more.

All you need sometimes is to stay home and organize some weekly themed projects of writing, have your guitar and song book, journal a bit, and read the novels that aren’t “mized” nanti Amazon says pay $12.99 and Aristoc wants 40bob.

Whenever I was the patient, I was the doctor that I needed in a way, coz I knew what I needed to do to get well. I only knew that most of the time because I was alone to see that and away from the clutter and clamor of” life” and “friends.” In that way I am the client that needs the therapy and the shrink that gives it. Only because, I know that my help does not come from the mountains, but from the maker and mover of those mountains.

The contention now is if that whole way of living is healthy. But I know so some greater extent it is in some situations. I know this because I do feel lonely sometimes, but that doesn’t last long. Sometimes I want to belong with a particular group, but that desire doesn’t last long either.

The need for clarity and sanctity lasts longer, until it is attained.

The word is the mirror I need and have now. Its teaching me who I am. It’s a little bit severe but all the best friends are. It tells the truth and doesn’t lie.

Being alone isn’t a bad thing. It’s a human thing. It is a good thing even sometimes.

So yeah.

On campus I will be with my backpack, ear phoned and alone running from class to class. That’s me.

You probably will see me less sometimes and then other times I will be in your faaaaaaacccceee studying its contours and all. But it will not be because in that moment I am veering into the innominate. It will be because at least amidst my consistent confusion, I know when I need to be alone.

It’s not good for man to be alone, but sometimes, it really is.

Hearing two: He who asserts must prove.

Hearing two: He who asserts must prove.

Within this sob story are many facts. Some of them are arguably fictitious, real or simply assertions, key word being arguably.

I believe any case is based on that; the fact that a party is simply “claiming” things. Whether it is true or not is immaterial right? The standard of right and wrong in a court room more often than not, is that everlasting standard set by “the law”. You just have to prove that law fits into whatever you are saying. I guess in this world, that is what the wins cases.

I lost this case even before I started arguing as its construction is assertion. This ties me to a peculiar legal premise and one alone: he, who asserts must prove.

It is a well-known legal principle that he who asserts must prove. Assertions are not always necessarily true, or necessarily founded on what is believed to be proof, as I have said. I claim they are simply theories with seconded opinions in agreement; agreement being then what is commonly known as the “proof.”

Indulge the simple interpretation of this principle in this special context.

It was more of a deceleration. It was, having these assertions that could in this instance be synonymous with beliefs and dreams, to having others in reaction to the thought that the former for some reason were misguided.*shrug*  

I was finally the young grown up; the unfolding adult and I found it exciting for some strange reason. It’s at this particular juvenile stage that teens feel they have the liberty to exercise every right in them “inherently.”

While I contend I was also part of this metamorphosis I am seemingly cynical about, my sarcasm can be construed broadly. I thus beg to clear all possible doubt by direction to this fairly restrictive two pronged interpretation.

I was a dreamer. I believed in some sort of construction of love that with every day is being dismantled and re-arranged.

I loved and hated that about myself.

The bigger question being posed now: “am I still one?”

I believed in everything else too. Bands and tours, valedictorian speeches and awards, gothic and metallic rock experiences, vampire fiction indulgences- name it. I believed in all these things for myself. As that phase unfolded, I was to learn that dreaming that dreams may come true, may in most aspects be futile.

This is why. Sometimes the point of dreaming is to help you hope, and in hoping, live. Hope; it is the motion. It makes the blood change courses.

It is what keeps you wanting to wake up the next day, and grab the nearest pen and writable surface to jot down ideals and theories that are mostly songs and production ideas, even in the most absurd places and during the most inappropriate situations.

Hope kept me believing that someday, my everlasting subjection to boarding school would end and I would finally be able to “live.” I would be able to fall in love and go on those tours I played in my mind. That is something among many other things, that God used to curb my impatience and over enthusiastic tendencies. It is also a tool God used to enable me know him more, at that time.

As I mentioned, I believed in love. While it can be said that in the application of the objective reasonable man test, everyone does believe in love, I beg to state that mine was a special kind. Yes it involved the clichés; the knights in shining amours on white horses, with blonde hair, that were princes in some far, far away kingdom but  also included the requirements for a, colloquially speaking “hot” guy. But it was established essentially on the desire for a man that loved God more than he would ever love me. That hasn’t changed and I pray will never.

So here is what happened: cute guy in blue shirt comes on an outreach plan to minister, in which and during which ministry there is the happening of “a moment” between him and I. Personal deduction and holding?-dream coming true. I was but a child really.

That Sunday all we did was exchange Facebook names. At that time my parents were of the view that I didn’t need to have a mobile phone. Little did I know that the little grace that was to be accorded to me in having one in the time to come, would be relinquished from fraternizing with this one John Tucker. Nevertheless, the following day in my most treasured computer class, I was in exercise of the privilege given to me once a week. That is; the use of the most popular social media in my circles and among my peers at that time, known as Facebook. The main point was to check for messages, see notifications and chat with someone online if you had the time to. As the lesson went on, I got to the part where I had time to chat and lo and behold, it was John Tucker sending me the first message. His name has a lot to do with this particular situation. The subject matter of our conversation was mostly awkward and thus entertaining to my friends that were with me to see those messages. I know I had said that I was apathetic to the whole situation of meeting him, and him showering me with praises over my less than amateur playing but in truth, however much I am embarrassed to admit a few things specific to my sex, we love attention. I hate that I love it. So I try not to dwell on it most of the time.

Like now. Moving on swifly.

This point is to explain that while I enjoyed the whole unfolding of this typical boy- meets- girl story, I also awarded it the clichés it deserved. Take this very parallel instance for one.

Teenage girl, who is into rock music and wants to be unique blablabla, meets random guy who she thinks is too good to be true.  In one way she is right, in other’s she is not, but at that time, to her he is just another John Tucker like guy.

The substance of that Facebook conversation wasn’t even vouching for dissuasion to my cliché conclusion. So I made it up in my mind that he was such. A typical John Tucker bent on entertaining himself with pursuits of conquest; subjects being random 15 year old girls who suck at playing the piano. And that ended that. Category named and file saved in mind.

The point I am really making to myself is that for example, while I pretended I didn’t believe in this dream, I did. But it was not to be.

The song “Dear John” By Taylor Swift was etched into my ka mind for a while. When I was fifteen, the song “Fifteen” by Taylor Swift was etched in my mind as well. But from all these chart toppers I have learnt that a cut and a broken heart are two significantly different things I have to say. That Taylor Swift chic used to be deep.

I was a little girl then when that all started, but now I’m an older little girl. I don’t want to go into the details of what that was all about because it’s always re-lived. The most I can go to explaining it, is in the feeling of having dapple gangers; me multiplied- so many “me’s” with different amplifications that make me, them.

That kind of pain can do a lot, but in the end it’s you to choose to deal with the pain in the right way. The effects of pain are not chains, they are a chair you can choose to sit in, or burn.

So the main question, is do I still believe in this whole love dream? The answer is yes and no. While love can be many things, what I dispute is the picture I have of it now that still little girl has grown up.

 I don’t believe that love is a Knight in shining armor on a white horse, neither do I believe that it’s chocolate and roses and poems and mush, even while it can be these things. It’s something much more mature and complex.

It’s not the color pink, its red. It’s not blue, it’s black. It’s the most complicated thing I know. It’s the most beautiful thing I know. To love someone and be loved is something Coldplay called “Magic.” I contend. It’s something divine and of God, for he is the essence of love. To be in excruciating pain your heart feels like its contracting, and still choose to cherish memories that only put salt in the wound must say something.

When you love someone, you love them- No matter what. That’s the biggest glitch in any escape plan, and the lynch pin in the beauty of love.

But for me I am on some other plan. The loving God plan. Don’t laugh. I’m so for real. I just also realize that I do not entirely comprehend love. Go know its source to truly live it out right?

I assert all these things about love. But I have to prove them as is the legal principle.

So in the words of the band US#,

“No one can choose who they fall for, or when they fall, or how they fall or why. But no, I don’t fall in love, it’s much too complicated.”

The sob story.

Hearing one: The sob story (intro)

Maybe, application of the legal mind that I am so grooming might be helpful in this diagnosis. 

It’s a looking-at-life-now review I am writing; not necessarily a legal document for I would have studied it in legal methods, but it is one of the sort. I have to assess my living and see if  at the furthest point I see it so far (which is right now), it is beautiful. 

Liability. Compensation. Confession. Freedom. Capitulation. Total redemption.

 

The language of the law is English. The method of this type of legal discussion is story telling. Whether its substance is truth, I don’t know. I might see it differently all those years later. 

So, if It may please this honorable audience consisting mostly of me, I beg to proceed with the plot of the story. I ask that the bench may brace themselves for the purposes of hearing this one; it’s quite a sob story. 

At least in my head it is.

One Sunday some years ago I met John Tucker. The nice one. Not the Mr. Casanova movie character.  The one you looked at first at thought was the movie character type but in actual sense was way much cooler. 

It was a Sunday  unlike any other. The norm was the routine; waking up to play piano for the two services with probably like a Crown him with many crowns hymn to look forward to or whatever. Anyway, this Sunday wasn’t like any other because we had the Alumni service in the morning. That was something to look forward to. It also meant a special song at the least from the old girls. That was a big deal by the way.

The biggest deal however, was the food the school was obliged to provide as an act of hospitality to their Alumni. Ordinarily I wouldn’t even be in on this, but my big sister happened to head the committee for that year and so, I helped out with serving the sodas during that luncheon. 

That’s where it all began and this is why.

It’s because I was serving sodas that I had to carry the crates back to the shop right outside the gate that we got them from. It’s because that I carried the crates that I saw him in the blue shirt he was wearing when I returned from that errand. It because he was right below the stairs my friends and I used that they were able to realize he had a slight resemblance to a one presumed suitor I had at that time. Nevertheless, all I managed to catch at that time was his blue shirt. 

I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t see his face. I shrugged and followed my friends to help clearing after the luncheon had ended.

I also see it pertinent to address why this was kind of a big deal, I mean here is a blue shirted man in an all girl’s school.

Kind of self-explanatory.

 Every Sunday was the Christian Club fellowship. Once in a while they would invite groups and people to encourage the school in the practice and exercise of their spiritual journey. This involved preaching, ministry in song, dance and drama. It was one such Sunday afternoon. There was a lot to look forward to, thus my earlier averment- it was a Sunday unlike any other.

At the time it was to start, my friends and I took our seats fairly close to the stage and waited in anticipation. The team was from a renowned church. They started with ministry in song in a session commonly known as praise and worship. I also wish to bring to attention the fact that I was suffering from the common influenza cold, symptoms of which include hoarse throats and a running rose. I therefore couldn’t sing along in the session so I concentrated on listening and observing and coming before my God in a spirit that was glad to be in His presence. 

It was no hindrance that I could not express that desire in song and through singing. I didn’t mind listening.

 The session went on and hands were lifted in worship, hands were clapped in praise, eyes were closed in adoration and blessings poured down.

However, one of the last songs caused my eyes to be opened. I listened to the amazing sound of a particular song I had never heard before. The melodic tunes of the piano that accompanied it subtly in the orchestration just sounded and resounded.

John Tucker was looking straight at me. That’s when it happened. That’s when it all began. The moment. The heart of the sob story. 

Attentions from strangers were the last thing I needed especially under the cover of “outreach” and “doing the work of the Lord”  but here it came, embellished in the body of a handsome John Tucker, not to mention amiable, as I was later to find out. 

At the end of it all though, It turned out my sister played a rather foundational role. I simply mentioned to her that the gentleman in the blue shirt looked like a John Tucker. 
 

 Acknowledging my observation, she nodded, as if contending with my deduction and gently beckoned me to a walk through the aisle. I honestly and in good faith believed that we simply were using the front exit. However she suddenly made a sharp turn to the left and there I found myself looking straight at this John Tucker, with nothing to say.  

So  sold the best I had;  a klutzy attempt at faking a confident and non-nervous demeanor.

 No one bought it. 

My sister then introduced she and I to this blue shirted man and I accompanied my introduction with an over worked smile. I bowed my head in sign to depart but lo and behold, someone else had to mention that I played the piano. I hated things like that. If I wanted to impress him, trust me, I would.

Obviously intrigued by the idea of a 15 year old girl poking at ivory sticks, he asked if I could play him something. Even though I tried to refuse, I still can’t figure out why inwardly I wanted to.

 I sat down at the 1900 John Broadwood and flexed my fingers, readying myself to play the best I had to offer. At that time it was a poor mimic of “He’s my son” by Mark Schultz. 

For some strange reason he was in a sincere and earnest awe. He asked me to play him something else. I thought of some other thing from my maverick wannabe mind. I played as far as far as I could, then made the to- brag excuse “that I hadn’t the staff notated music” with me and therefore couldn’t finish the piece.

 He was besotted.

I couldn’t understand it. My mind went to assessing if it was pity? Mockery perhaps? It wasn’t anything like that. He actually thought I was good.

Time came and he had to leave. 
 

In a general analysis, it wasn’t anything articulately memorable or amazing. I was just thankful something had happened that I could journal about.

Some John Tucker look alike came to school and talked to me. Did I feel special? Was my head in the clouds? Was my heart whispering thing and things and things? Maybe, maybe not. Shrug.

 I got my bible and headed for my next fellowship.

I admit to this honorable audience of myself that I have dwelt a lot on the expression of sentiment that possibly clouds my objectivity in  the telling of this story. 

 But to reiterate the words of Jon Foreman; I am essentially not sentimental, this skin and bones is a rental. No one makes it out alive.

I also wish to remind this court that this is a sob story, so much so, I’m sobbing inwardly right now.

 I don’t know if at all it can be construed objectively as just that story. But I believe this court has the jurisdiction of these sorts of matters. I therefore leave it to them *read me* in their *insert my* wisdom to determine the proper way forward as presented by this cause of action, and literal sudden and overwhelming need for a huge and warm hug, preferably from my mother.

Otherwise, I rest my case... for now.

                                                       End of hearing one.