Ibadan, running splash of rust and gold-flung and scattered among seven hills like broken china in the sun. – J.P. Clark
They are not the overtly generous type like ours that will throw free 10kg bag of rice for you to catch on campaigns rallies not minding if you get yourself stoned to death as a result of your overzealous throat or thrill you with Michael Jackson dance moves from Tafawa Balewa square to government house with a WAEC result on life support and melodramatic theatrics in the parliament that would make Peter Dinklage rethink his career choice even though the highest they can do is orchestrate their own kidnap to run away from the police on instagram live.
How does it feel when you hear your language? For me, it's like a tingling effect in my ears usually to remind of how much of a break I have had from not hearing it. 'Oh that sounds familiar,' and I go on a search with my eyes for the bearer of the good tidings. It sounds sweet each time.
‘Love, Her’, teaches you how to love yourself and others in simple ways such as being honest, allowing yourself to see growth as a normal process, adjusting to reality when things don’t go as planned and believing things to work out fine. ‘Love is meant to be the purest form of appreciating another human being without expectations or demands.’
'Just an FYI. You can do what you love and still be tired. You can do what you love and still become burnt out. You can do what you love and still get excited about taking a break.' @THEAlishaNicole
Something to teach about being you. Being simple yet making the world feel you just the way you are, ordinary
I often get down on myself for the lack of meaning in the spurts of writing I publish on my blog, the ten-minute free writes that are unedited streams of consciousness, the spewing of thoughts after pulling a prompt from a box. “Who cares?” I ask myself. Who cares about the details of everyday life? The creaks and hums my house makes when it is empty? The smell of coffee and paper and ink when I write?
And then I sigh and recognize I am no writer, not like the real writers who don’t just write the details to plop you in the middle of a scene so you feel the warmth of golden light on prairie grasses and smell the grain scent they radiate in sunshine. Real writers get to a deeper truth beyond just being in the setting. They get to meaning.
Or so I thought.
I am in the car…
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We simply can't wish away the past. It is there locked in the recesses of our minds even though we try to snub its yearning call. Yesterday formed today and only today can make tomorrow better.
As a child, holidays don't get any better but just as you're growing up the jolly holiday experience fizzles.
Source: Human Instinct: Fear