I don’t know what came over me… It’s been several weeks now that I’ve been feeling something unsettled inside. Something I hold dearly. It has a mixed taste of sweetness and bitterness; gracefulness and sorrow. I don’t really know where I’m going with this, but I confess to you, I felt I had to sit down and take space on this blank page, and let go of all my thoughts and wonders. Something hit me, hit me hard, not long ago. “Brick and stones will break your bones but words will never hurt you”. How ? Now tell me, how is that true? Boom. That, just broke me! The amount of violence we are able to convey through words..! Words hold incommensurable weight. It’s a soulful exercise of the spirit to filter them and question them before I let them be, I let them be heard. Daily. I am, responsible. Every single time I speak, every single time I write. Every single time I touch someone else’s space with my ideas, with my subliminal verses. I am responsible. Is this too much to say? Guess what, too bad. Listen up my friend, ideas can hurt. Some ideas can dig deeply into wounds that I might be unaware of, but they are salt on flowing blood. Because an idea has many faces and it can soon become a voice, a voice a presence and a presence, pain. That will be tangible and real. Guaranteed.
I have an infinite power of evil within. So it is an exercise of will and strength deciding daily to do good, be good, loving and kind. It’s a damn steep staircase that challenges me every single step. Because come on! The thought of slipping, stop caring, stop being responsible, stop choosing.. it’s so temptingly sweet at times! It comes to me like a final relief, like evanescent nectar spread all over my mind. But that’s when Africa comes to me. Africa: my protector. She comes to rescue me, to reconnect me to what truly matters, with the smell of family and fire. She brings me back to that ancient extraordinary energy the human race carried among centuries. The thought of Africa comes to me strong. And I remember. That I am here to love, to serve, to be a tool of the infinite beauty I lay in. Words can always hurt, my friend, they can make me worried and small; wounded and angry. Bitter over time. So caught up into my own tiny bubble that, I am told, has to sparkle at all times so no one can see how ashamed I am, how insecure I am, how fragile I am. But when Africa comes, like a wind among the thick trees of my intricate mind, the bubble explodes. And I can finally breathe. Because my pain is nothing but your pain, my love, my fear is nothing but your fear. My bubble and my mean words are just like yours. So maybe, for a moment, when I look at you and you look at me, we can just laugh about it and let go of it. All of it. And meet each other naked in the heart of a village that celebrates the everlasting dance of Love.