Meditate... Meditate... Meditate...
Instead of Medicate... Medicate... Medicate.
It's about 8 in the AM, but 'eyes never clear for Kate'.
She's on a dosage that the physician never signed off on.
One Benylin and sprite twice or thrice daily gives her the feeling that she's sailing.
But to where? She'll never really know.
The repercussions of this seed she doesn't really know.
The god of addiction has struck her with his arrow that flew at a nasty angle off his bow.
So now all she sees is slow, all her brain aches for is that numbness ... It's at a stage she can't control.
Her journey into the 'rup clan was smooth and steady.
10 dwarfie bottles in a party standing next to 10 mighty carbonated bottle of drinks.
A chemistry titration where the titre value is how high can we go.
The indicator... The slow feeling knocked upon to the brain.
Here all the pain seems to go away.
Like the prodigal son going even more astray.
Never to return... As the journey to an unknown land has begun without the Sojourner even taking notice.
Somebody say No please.
The backdoor escape for suffering or psychological trauma is not codeine.
Yet I live In a society where disruptive behaviour disorder is termed as evil and demonic spirits.
Split personality disorder is ogbanje or mammy water.
'Well, wetin man wan do'... This is Nigeria.
'Coda bottles full all of the area'.
All of the time a young lad or lass feels caged, one of their peer passes him the lean... We slowly killing ourselves, Kung-Fu kicks to our ribcages.
It's now a recreational beverage.
The further they climb, the harder it is to withdraw.
Soon enough the camel's back is broken with the last straw.
Those pullings the strings of the addicted are the winners and like the Champions League final, there are no draws.
They are the clan, dangling the cheese of codeine in front of addicted mice.
They fail to provide a platform.
Yet cry wolf for the same minds they have deformed.
They pump money into the business on code.
Reaping in back, ripping us off like flesh off toads.
Yet, this is a story which would never be told.
They love us dead in the head just to get ahead.
Yes... That goes for your dead beat pharmacies who leak the ish behind curtains.
You know the drawbacks, yet with that same cane you flog our bare backs.
Lean would never get fatter if the clan close the channels.
It booms because they provide the funnels.
Yet they want accolades for banning said drugs, when we know it's a ploy to jack up the price of said drugs on the street.
More coins in their money bags, shamefully for them that's lit.
This again is Nigeria.
Abeg, do not high 5 the syrup clan.
It's 5:33 PM and rain drops are crashing on my window.
I'm in the shower where I often think the most clear and the world often spins slow.
Big Brother's wedding is in a lil' bit, all I can think 'bout is what if it was me getting hooked for life.
David Asikpata Omoighoje found a woman and he found a wife.
It sends a shiver down my spine and now I know probably how big brother must be feeling.
Alittle nervous I suppose.
A life long commitment whom no one can oppose.
The water takes a journey to the bathroom floor via my torso and I begin to imagine my own wedding.
I don't really dig it big, but it's her day so lets bang the drums and make loud sounds.
From the altar I gaze upon the aisle and behold she emerges in flowing white.
If the choir could sing EdSheeran's perfect it would magnificent, I'm by the altar in a burgundy suit with black lapels thinking to myself that my queen is indeed a beautiful sight.
I'm focused on her and somehow the congregation fades away.
In my head am reciting my vows, hoping to spit 'em like a rappers bars when I finally say 'em.
It is such bliss which I can't just waste with just any miss.
My mind drifts to the women who would probably point to me and say I led them on.
I put it all on the table before we went ahead to do what thou wilt.
For most of them I'd probably say it's a shame our love went on tilt.
No fault of mine that's why I always tried to keep it real.
Like a highlight reel it all flashes in front of my face.
She who would point fingers at me forgetting we were often cut up by so many states.
We desired each other and of cos we were knee deep on something akin to what y'all call love.
She always thought she was in the boat alone, and I like a puppet master joyfully pulled her strings.
I guess at my wedding that would all be in the past and like Prince Harry I'd joyfully invite my ex-es without bad blood.
The reception gonna be lit and something tells me by that time I'd be into roses for some wierd reason.
Dance Dance Dance Season.
I sure hope she can rock the dance floor else that would mean I'd be taking two trophies home.
It's 6:13, I am fully clothed now, legs crossed on my study table.
I can solely conclude now and this is in no way a fable.
Love is sweet and weddings are always beautiful.
I feel ill, a sickness of thumbing my phone.
I'm inside the internet, a home that's different from my own.
My hands are itchy, my data is out but somehow my phone is in my hands... I guess my Phone is sticky.
It's hard to admit but am addicted to living in this digital space where the earth is compressed into a global village.
I'm more connected than I once was, yet I've become more disconnected.
It's a paradox and yes it sucks, but I can't help but thumb away all day like my hands and phone were together in cuffs and locks.
Initially I had failed to realize it.
I've got every information literally at my fingertips, a swipe or a click.
My favourite stars don't only shine at night, even at daylight, they are always within sight.
So I follow their trail wishing their life was mine, coming to conclusion that my life was probably swine.
I'm now a stalker, in one hand I've got johnnie walker whilst drooling over melanin beauties and light skin damsels.
On it alot sells.
With a click those fresh pairs of sneaks could be on my feet.
On it there's coins in the pockets of business owners, but there's manipulation too... Pulling strings for Maximum profits, consumer's money has gone down the loo.
I'm synced to my phone like a google app, it's eating my time like a tasty snack... It's like cheese to mice, I'm in a very big trap.
I can't pullout and can't stand the withdrawal symptoms.
It would be like time traveling to the stone age, no one even reads hard covers anymore, it's so much work to flip a page.
I'm red with rage Knowing I've caught this bug, Feeling manipulated by Mr Zuckerberg.
The advance in tech has seemed to cause a wreck.
The negatives are clouding the positives, maybe going back to the garden would be safer? With my pelvic region covered by broad leaves.
So then How do I go on?
Knowing I'm in digital chains, my very consciousness orchestrated by what I assimilate.
Is it too late?
Do I just follow its tides oblivious of the location of shore.
It's all some sort of blur, I never knew how I got here.
The bigger question with a fat elephant in the room is... How do I get out?
Just aimlessly walking searching for her blackened heart
I was left by my mother at the University Of Detroit after five days. My first few times in the class almost made thank my mother for not making do the sciences, it dawned every time on me that education in my new world is not a child's play, I saw a signpost on my first day that reads "the best or nothing" - it reflected meaning as I went deeper. It was a hodgepodge of the best of minds from all walks of life, I was challenged and my morales almost flawed, my confidence for the first time flinched, I met students who I probably no life aside academia. The racial undertone also added to my early complex, the contemptuous nature of the white students and the counteractions of the other minorities, all were obvious although very subtle, it was a cold war where physical engagements were not allowed, the only way to put your colour ahead is to get into the good books of the school for mindblowing reasons, either scholastic or curricular achievements.
I carried the charged hardworking acumen into everything, I understood at an early age that I do not posses physical strength for anything, I was not skilled with my hands, therfore, I believed in my brain, I was exposed to environments and activities that required strictly the use of my brain, I don't remember lifting a bucket of water ever in my life, I was not a brat, I can do the traditional girl chores, my mother was hitler on that, I did cleaning, sweeping and other relative chores but with every form of amenities available. My brain is my strength, I worked on it every day to give me the competitive edge, I have always loved winning, I deal strictly with whatever comes in the way of that.
I have been a loyal disciple of your wonderful platform for years, I have followed since its nascent formation and I am more than happy with what it had become, I have a lengthy autobiography of myself and the one time I experienced true love, I hope it makes it to the headline of your next blog post, I am positive it will as it is a love story distinctly different from what you have seen, read or feel, I beg for a minute of your time to follow this litany of events, critically consider it and decide if it is worth sharing. This I am about to share might even entertain you.
You must be either this or that.
Lots of time, i lived my life on the edge... my messages to those i loved were never sent.