a universal

Without the light of God,
no body loves.
And without love,
Every body suffers.

a novel about going to Kenya, chapter 1

I came here to die. I crossed the Mediterranean, and northern Africa, with no hope in my heart about my new life. I arrived, with very little excitement. I have come here because I reached total disappointment, and I expect nothing. I won’t seek comforts, nor friends. I will look for a useful project to devote my labor, in hope that I will forget my self. I will fear no danger, but do only charity, whilst I wait for, and long for, death.

lament

La a a a ment

Lament

A! The sorrow. The self-inflicted sorrow.

In this world,

In this crazy world

In me

But how great it is that I suffer!

How glad I am!

How happy I am, to see the other side.

To see the pain caused

To open your nose to the stench, to realize you are in shit.

How glad am I

How much more free am I, now, in my sorrow!

It is better to be sinned against

Than to sin.

a kind of kindness that is real

A happiness that crashes to the ground and breaks.

That hits cement and breaks.

That cracks open and leaks out.

That spills out and is lost.

And in its stead it leaves a sadness.

It leaves you tired

It drains you,

Reminds you that you are alone

And especially if it’s the middle of the day, you want to go and huddle in your duvet, and sleep it off.

Was ever such happiness real? Or is there more than one kind?

Is there a kind that will last and a kind that will not?

And do I need to go to different shops,

And wear different clothes

To get it?

I want the lasting sort.

about writing

Do you know why I write?

I write because words lay heavy on my soul.

I write because my soul holds tightly on to words,

And it doesn’t let them go.

It doesn’t relax, until I find the right place to put them.

I hold them in my heart, like a tiger holds her babies in her mouth, until I find a place to put them down.

I must write them to preserve them

I must write them so that they are not lost, and with them, I am not lost.

If all these words were lost, all these words of my heart, if they were not said or written, if they were not remembered, or somehow kept,

I would be lost with them.

May be the right place to put them is with people. The right place to say them is into that other heart of which they are true.

But people don’t communicate

I live in hell

Each person is alone and we do not communicate

The strain on my being is immense

And it must thus be that I write.