22

Be you again

When you are a child, from what you see and from what you are told; you will eventually grow up. That is what happens in life, you are born, you grow and then “grow up” and die.

For me as a five year old I remember having the very point of living for me as the dream and achievement of “growing up.”

I pictured all the multitudes of friends, family and well-wishers gathered and applauding as I stood and waved back at them. I envisioned myself in the splendor of grown-upness as the eloquent voice of reason, flipping my blonde hair and smiling with sparkly white grown up teeth, welcoming all the guests to the celebration of me growing up. Then I would say something grown up and the crowds would go wild! Yes! I would be the brilliant epitome of adulthood. The elders would long for their youth at the very sight of my grown up self. This I would achieve and nothing would get in my way.

I would pass every end of year exam because excellence meant the next class. In kindergarten one day I would reach top class and all those newly weaned children would look at me and long for that glory.

I would be the P.7 student that run the whole school.  The one who talked about all the things we had in our knowledge, like the difference between an obtuse and an acute angle in the presence of the young-uns. To ask a comrade of the same rank the simple question would suffice. Let the young ones remain in awe of these terms that attack their ears. Pull out your Social Studies MK while at it and discuss the failures of Kwame Nkrumah. That’s right you P. 5 pupil, I’m all grown up. *insert slow and legit gangsta nod*

Just to be like all those beautiful girls I saw and observed days on end on the TV and Billboards. To attain the noble skill of flipping my amazing hair that for some strange reason was always blonde when I imagined it; to even grow out my hair to blondness for that matter. Even the Disney princesses and characters were all grown up. That’s why they could be the chosen ones to defeat the bad guys and the ones marrying princes and all that awesome grown up stuff. Hec! Grownups even sang better.  Even the animations were grown up animations. When they made the Lion King, Kierra and Kovu had grown up voices.

The universe was telling me something; growing up was lit.

Because of all the things I could not do because I was “still too young” I longed to grow and see the world. I longed to grow and “live” in doing all these things I could not ordinarily do.

One day I was too young to go to school, and then I wasn’t. I was constantly, consistently and persistently told I was too young to wear makeup, and then I wasn’t. I was too young to have a boyfriend, and then I wasn’t. I was too young to get married, and now I’m not.*refer to the Laws of Uganda*

It’s like that cardiac arresting moment when you hear a real grown up say something absurd like, “I haven’t driven a manual car in twenty two years.”

All you can do in that moment is clutch that arrested heart and go “Bro!” As in, yes. Arguably and by a certain standard and perspective I am still but a sort of grown up child, but in these twenty two years of mine I can write books and books and books about each moment and experience because so much has happened in my tiny life span.

So how is my whole long and detailed and expansive life span something as short as something you haven’t done in my whole lifespan!! *clutches heart once again*

What I see now is I missed the point in a way most of us do. We tie the bench mark of success at each stage of life by certain achievements. Like finally using a pen and not a pencil, getting that degree, getting married, that first car, that awesome job and the ages are just the points in the timeline the achievements should occur.

Of, yesterday I ran into a friend from high school that is like practically my age because she is only two years older than me and she was like “I’m engaged!” The expression on my face unfortunately wasn’t congratulatory. I was in too much shock. The first thought was contacting police coz in my head we are still underage for marriage and what not. I really wasn’t ready!

Moses in Psalms 90 asks the Lord to teach him how to number his days aright, that he might gain a heart of wisdom. With all these thoughts in this my birthday week, a whole new meaning of “growing up” came to mind.

Firstly, I can say now to myself that I am terrified of growing up and I wish I was 5 years old again.

 Secondly, I realize that in the end you actually grow. It is not a myth. In three years I will be 25 and the probably start throwing “Forever 25” birthday parties also till the day I die.

Thirdly and weirdly, in my mind, the exception is parents. They never grow! It’s like my parents never grow. With all the years that have been added to my life (as if I’m 60) they still look the same as when I beheld them on the day I was born. I real remember that day and they look the same.*Banange, if only my mom read my blog so some benefit might come in the process from this props I am giving*

I have learnt that growing up isn’t an event. It is a process. What makes the milestones is what you went through to get there.

So many of us could not wait to get the hell out of high school, but I miss that place so much. I realize it is more because what mattered happened in between and in the midst of the moments I was wishing and couldn’t wait to get out.

Life is not an event. It isn’t just that job, that boyfriend, that thing that comes at the right time like perfect and “successful” clockwork of life’s timeline. It’s everything that builds up to the next event and the next one and the next one. That’s the danger in dreaming about a kind of life; you could forget the one that you are living.

I have learnt that living is more important than the event of “growing up.” Even when one day I will forever and everlastingly be 25, I should cherish and enjoy being 22 right now. Be where you are and love being where you are because somehow that’s where you are right now.

The wisdom is right there in those lessons at that time in that place. It is no wonder we have adults making childish decisions and the like. They really failed to grow up and mostly because they didn’t learn in the process of life and living.

Be “you” while you are still “you”, whatever and whoever “you” is. Don’t live in the future. Don’t live in the past. Be you and live as you are. Be you again and not all these demands from society and that voice in your head.

Life is dynamic. Move with it. Learn with it. Grow with it.

Don’t let it leave you behind.

Beat again

Beat again

The thoughts about this song concerned that moment in time, when it hits you that the chaos is here with you and here to stay for a while.  It is that moment when the worst part of the story sinks in to the foaming and stirring oceans that rage within you. The clouds had been gathering for a while but like any other person, I hopped they would disappear and the sun would come out again. It was the moment I realized that I had to learn to live with a few facts that had to be accepted by my mind and heart.

I had been going through a lot in life with school, friends, and my walk with God.

My mind suddenly seemed incapable of understanding or even accepting it all. Those facts caused so much entropy and inward tumult.  I asked myself how anyone could ever contend with such a struggle, yet I knew that I had to. What was happening to me was part of life.

For a time, I had the inkling that something was not right. Yes, external happenings had their inward influence. But inside, it felt ten times worse than what had happened on the outside.

It’s like it all sunk in that my heart was under attack in some way.

It hit me that I was going through all these things and I had to deal with it all rightly. I had been reluctant to admit that this is where God had allowed me to reach but there was this knowledge of his hand directly involved in all I went through. Somehow, that didn’t make me feel completely better. It made me more scared and despairing.

I knew most of what I was going through I had gotten myself into. I knew that if this affected me more than it should it would still be my fault. I looked back in retrospect wishing my life had made different turns from the ones I had made. If that was so I wouldn’t be where I am, but there I was and somehow I knew I had to reach and endure this point id I was to move on.

There was a way it was rock bottom but somehow I was moving and doing things. In my head, everything about me had completely shut down. I even wondered where the will to press on came from. I was in bewilderment at the situation itself; every ability to continue with the normal was such a surprise. To do assignments and hand them in on time, to go to class, do be part of church, to socialize with my friends; all of it was happening even while I feel like my insides were being consumed in a sulfurous concoction of chaos.

So one evening after a long week at school, I got back home and these thoughts filled my mind. I was sort of stilled and silenced by how big and serious it all seemed. My heart felt dead but there I was breathing in and out, living life normally or with the capacity to do so.

I sat and wondered in my room at how I would deal with it all. What would I depend on? Time to even things out?  Some magic trick and suddenly it would all be over? A new habit to distract me? A shrink probably? lol

I knew I had to go through this and that made me scared. In panic I instinctively recoiled at the thought of a pain- like endurance. I felt I didn’t have it in me to persevere.

It would be like that moment when the doctor said you had a disease that would kill you unless you accepted to take a sort of medicine that albeit would cause you more pain, would make you well too. In that moment, I was considering dying from the disease anyway because I knew what the healing process would entail.

My prayer was simply that God would keep my heart safe from me.

The Psalmist in Psalms 139 asks the Lord to search his heart and know his ways, to try him and know his thoughts, to see if there is any wayward way in him and lead him to life everlasting.

It is like within himself he knew what he struggled with; he struggled with himself. He struggled with his fear that wanted to overwhelm his courage to do the right thing, especially when he knew what the right thing was. He knew how prone he was to despair even with the truth of God’s faithfulness experiences and manifested in his life again and again.

He didn’t trust himself to know his heart even when he knew it. He trusted him who made it and him that is perfect. He trusted in the God who knew him in and out more. He trusted in the purpose of the father that had made him.

Somehow here I was understanding all this wretchedness in what I was going through and myself, but somehow the hope was in the fact that God’s knowledge and purpose and will surpassed, or wasn’t constrained by that wretchedness, however dark it was.

He would keep my heart safe from me, even if that’s what it took; that horrible and dreadful healing process. And so as I prayed that in that moment my heart would beat again from its deadness,  that dead heart hoped and knew that God would keep it and it would live again.

In the midst of the chaos I had to remember that pain is never meaningless, nothing is wasted and that a beating heart is always light….

 and heavy.

About the Chaotic Heart EP

Chaotic Heart<3

This is project is about a Chaotic Heart.

Mine.

Yours.

Sometimes I think about it and that’s about all I can muster in my very many thoughts.

I’m supposed to know what the words I’m singing are supposed to achieve in me who sings them and in those that listen to them. I’m supposed to know what the anthem I present is titled and concerns.

But sometimes I don’t.

When I do in everyday living, that certainty I have about is always questioned, destroyed, mocked or slowly being hacked at into disappearance. I sit down and question in search for that reason; why my faith and strength wane more and more each day with each pang of the felt chaos.

I look around myself to the lives of those that surround me and sometimes it feels like this war is mine and mine alone, and that is true. What we go through is ours to go through particularly and peculiarly.

But we all go through it, and that’s the point.

The point is that the human heart is chaotic.

If we all go through this chaos, then what is its relevance?

The mutinies and Tsunamis of red are very recent and everyday events in every inward city.

We wonder if we can ever accept the presence of struggle. Can we ever be ok with that process?

Even when we might know that it achieves our salvation, how do we count it all joy when faced with every trial? Yes, especially when we know what it achieves.

All we seem to know more is the chaos and where it takes place; in our hearts. That chaos is caused by our many decisions and choices. We indeed know what causes the pain. It is our nature. It is our weakness. It is other people with the same futile nature.

We feel a subjection to that situation of war and failure. It is almost like it cannot be helped. Strife will always find its way around and threaten the hope for peace.

This chaos constantly clashes with the Hope that someday things will be different.

I can see other people and how they have dealt with the war inside. Most of them have given up and are dying somehow; giving into the demands of the inward enemy to prevent bloodshed. They have decided to be fine with being slaves to the chaos and have convinced themselves that it is how life ought to be. All is fair in love and war after all; you must do what you must do to survive.

We have become complacently apathetic to the whole situation. We are fine with losing the war because it is too hard to fight he tides of rebellion in ourselves against that hope. We have failed and have convinced ourselves that inwardly the war must be lost. But hope you see, never disappoints. It is not put to shame. We forget that.

The chaos is chaotic of course. It is real and excruciating pain which is why I probably picked up the pen to write about it in the first place. But the chaos clashes with hope; the need for redemption and sanctification. The great need to “unbe” who I am and become as Christ is. I understand this.

I am open to believe a lot around me and in my head because it seems easier. I have done that sometimes and that has instead energized and helped chaos. But in everything you must find the truth.

For me even in the confusion and very chaos I talk about, my confidence remains in the fact that I shall be conformed to the perfect example. But you see, it is only through the chaos, not before it and not somehow after it magically disappears. It has to be after you have gone through it, and that process ends when I draw my final breath.

Most of the time, I give into the fear and intensity of the chaos and forget what it will achieve; what it achieves even. I lose all strength and desire to continue with seeing the point of it all: salvation. Somehow growing and becoming stronger because I live, as the chaos is so part of life.

The chaos is ugly and difficult.

It is to do with so much pain.

I’m just saying what you already know, and the message my heart is so burdened with. I’m on the road to figuring out how to deal with it all, just like you.

I’m still internalizing that bit and maybe this project, in sharing it with you will encourage you to something I could learn that you have learnt. Or maybe the whole process will open my eyes to something I will finally realize. For now, I know I’m just writing about the difficulty of a fiery sanctification in a time when it is hard to see the point.

But this I know; that if he promised pain it can’t be meaningless.

I know the presence of the chaos is the means to truly being free of it, and one day I will by His faithfulness alone after all, a beating heart is always light and heavy.

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.”