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Conversations With the Thunder.

I had a conversation with the thunder.

All I could do was listen to his sobs roaring through the sky as my heart ached

All that was going through my mind as I tried to form a reply was that I could relate.

I really could.

I also felt so much pain that my face would appear cloudy

I also felt pain that all I could do was cry without making a sound

Please don't judge me

But I had a conversation with the thunder and somehow it was therapeutic

Language has become such a barrier lately.

Because there's this sweet thing called articulation.

As a writer, the panel of judges that reside in your head don't just give you a certificate for participation

No, you want to get your heart racing

Get emotions chasing after pain you thought you didn't even have

And you have to do all that considering basic things like metaphors, similies, and if your work is coherent

I had a conversation with the thunder

And he wasn't bothered about the fact that he wasn't speaking in a language that a human would understand

He just vented and at times he cried

All I did was listen and we ended up talking all night.

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"What do you do when you're exhausted from the inside and even language fails to help you cry onto a page?"

- Unako || Nobody Taught Her

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At Some Point, I Will Rise.

As if my body is the piece of the universe above the skies I see

Inside me I forsee a moonlit, purple curtain drawing open in slow motion, making way for sunrise.

At some point, I will rise.

All the times I cried,

Struggled with my child,

Wondering why it felt like God was quiet.

God does things in His own time, I'm reminded.

But what about mine? I cry.

My pride

Reveals itself

Crystal clear transparency in each tear drop:

I want to be seen as something in society

Especially after how I've messed up my reputation of a good and prosperous child.

I can't stand the condescending, sometimes pitiful looks I get from people

Or maybe all of this is just in my mind.

I don't want to end up being known for what I could have been or would have been had it not been for the decisions that I made.

But despite my feelings, some days

I think my body is the piece of the universe above the skies I see

And inside me I forsee a moonlit, purple curtain drawing open in slow motion, making way for sunrise.

At some point, I will rise.

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There's Pain.

There's pain.

It feels like a knife that has been scraping on this small part of my chest.

Sharp.

Painful.

I guess the blood spills over the alphabet because words have become a method of setting the pain free.

Even if temporary.

Even though sometimes I don't articulate my writing pieces as perfectly I want them to be.

Turns out my feelings don't really care about accommodating my perfectionist tendencies.

There's pain.

It feels like a knife that has been scraping on this small part of my chest.

Sharp.

Painful.

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Now I'm Here.

It started when I started becoming honest about my feelings towards him.

Despite the fact that I felt deeply for him, my feelings were intertwined with my insecurities so when he left me, I was faced with a kind of brokenness that denial couldn't sweep under the carpet anymore.

I dealt with a desperate pain.

The kind that begs you to stay when you don't need to, just for the sake of holding on to the little bit that's there even though it's not enough to sustain any kind of relationship anymore.

A hopeful pain.

Willing to be endured for the sake of being happy again in future.

The smallest of things are signs that he's coming closer,

It's all just an illusion.

A selfish pain.

I endured the little glimpses of grief then took it out on him.

I got angry because he wasn't complying with what I wanted

And although I didn't ask for much, I was forgetting that it's wasn't something that he wanted.

And relationships don't work like that.

So I started asking myself questions.

Now I'm here.

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It's Over.

Somewhat bitter residue still left behind.

Reminders of the times I hurt and cried.

Asking God for reasons why

Or how

Or when the pain would end.

Turns out what I needed was time

Without you.

To cry

About you.

To live

Without you.

To write

About you as a distant character in my life,

And not write the story with you.

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Her, Honestly

She doesn't want to tell you what's wrong because she thinks she wants to go through it alone. She doesn't want to cry for no reason. She doesn't want to exaggerate her feelings. She's afraid that she won't make sense.

And maybe whatever she's going through isn't that bad anyway.

She doesn't want to be vulnerable about what makes her sad.

Fear of rejection, perhaps.

And even though she knows she doesn't need approval to feel the way that she feels all she really wants is to be listened to and conforted. A solution, we'll find later.

So when she tells you what wrong...

Please be gentle.

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