S E L F P O T R A I T | IN C O N G R U E N CE
Her body is history. Two decades-long and counting. History is winter, autumn, summer, spring. Seasons & bones. Alike they break and reset.
Ashen winter logs, autumn leaves crayoned in fades, sapphires & burning oranges. Spring floristry peeling open like artwork at the sharp angle where her cheek and eye muscles join.
Soft summer rainbows reeling from her shoulders, sinking in her collar cleft, climbing up her neckline, pirouetting into yellow dots, inked over her strong cheekbones. Rising, till the soft bend of her brow.
Morning joy juts on her jawline. Her body is history. Two decades and counting. History is color flowing. Colour parading; smooth peaches, sharp crimsons, sky blues, metal blacks, royal purples. Melanin saturating her skin. Full.
Bold. Daring. Apologetic.
She walks, like peacock feathers stroking and sweeping the brown of earth, confidently. These vivid colors stream through her spirit. [Joy] abiding in her bones.
The weight of winter falls. Cheerless leaves etch strange marks on her skin. Clear and unclear. Blurred, Golden yellow stretch marks. Becoming hers with time.
Her spine is stained with the rustic taste of never minds, it’s ok, sure I can, would have rather.
IN C O N G R U E N C E| I do not meet here, I do not agree.
On those days when dreary winter breaks over spring and summer juts upon sacred autumn, an eerie scream of a thousand eons breaks aloud from her spirit. A deep groan. A cry. This desperation to discover, to dust off and to trace her wings and fly. To escape this incompleteness.
This walled mind.
This strange body.
This wanting the wanted because it’s wantable.
This walking into molded pathways and institutionalized ambitions.
This strange hope that purpose and impact trickle down later
This Prematuri thinking.
“Her body groans with a cry too deep for words. Not her body alone but all of creation [pants, gasps, sighs] waits with eager longing for the manifestation of this purpose. The revealing of the children of God. A Purpose crafted by an omniscient maker, written carefully, before the foundations of the earth.
Yet her mind could not grasp or fathom this invitation, the invitation that asks “what do you [really] ache for, without cautioning, be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations
of being human. The invitation would persist, asking; can you disappoint another
to be true to yourself. Bear the accusation of betrayal and therefore faithfulness to your own soul.”
It was all far too great to comprehend.
And so she lived. Unaware. sometimes aware.
Knowing that there is a loss. That without this knowledge [of who she is and is to be] she would perish. Conform. Rut. Linger on the sides with no spine, no fire burning through her bones. Merely existing.
And so she lived. Unaware. But aware. That there is a loss.
Who said you have forever?
Who said you will live forever, her spirit would inquire.
What are you afraid of?
The crimsons and purples and melanin that paraded her skin would ask. This history, this color in her was a wisdom, scripted in her bones to whisper to her and urge her; saying do you not know? do you not know that on the other side of believing, daring, aching, there really is nothing to fear. There is no one way.
Run, run with all your might. Towards the fear. Towards the hard things. Do the things that can not be done in your own might. Build. Build a legacy that exceeds the strength of your own hands. Pave, pave a path that lives yonder your generation. One that changes your lineage. Move in the direction of your hearts ache.
That the ache would keep you daring!
Just as I was ready to publish this post; my best friends dad (S/O Mbesi) called and read this lion chasers manifesto by Mark Batterson to us. It felt like confirmation or an answer to the questions I have been wrestling with in this post.