TTS: Interludes of Life

09h59 PM, Sunday, 26 February 2016
At Home

Jee. Sus.

I hate crying over movies. Especially sad ones whose messages seep through to the most sensitive, deepest crevices of the heart. The ones that make you cry... not just because the heartbreaking storyline, but because a core part of you resonates profoundly with it. I often try to downplay the severity the of trauma I experienced when my mum passed away. It's actually harder admitting it now than it was four years ago because of how far behind the closet I've tried to shove the matter. It's harder talking about it, and brutal thinking about it. But grief's a work in progress, right? It has to be. I mean, I don't think it just ends, like conversations do. Collateral Beauty starring Will Smith helped me understand this. We often put immense pressure on ourselves to "get over it" -- to resume life as normal as soon as we can.

Normal? What fucking "normal"?

My world's just died and you expect me to be normal? Fuck you.

So we play along anyway, because that's the norm, right? It's psychotic to be depressed and grief-stricken for too long, right? But nothing ever feels normal again. You simply learn to carve out a new normal that doesn't feel too foreign. But it does. It does. When you've made someone your world, it often does feel too foreign moving on without them.

Which is why we should never make people our worlds; they're prone to dying on us.

TTS: Interludes of Life

Saturday, 20h05 PM, 25 February 2017
At home

Love: this somewhat endurable feeling, is a peculiarly fragile thing. Hold on too tightly, and you may suffocate it -- letting it wither and die before it's bloomed in your favour. Release your grip entirely, and it slips through your fingers before you've owned it.

Now what's a girl to do to keep Love present in her life? (Just this once, let's not equate love with romance...)

What I honestly think?

Don't try to own it.
Don't take possession of it.
Don't make it what it isn't because it comes in various forms.
It's not something we can lay claim to, so it's pointless even trying.
Appreciate it for the fleeting, floating transmitter it is.
If it's yours to stay, it will occupy that spare room in your heart's quarters; if not, gladly pack its suitcase and board it on the train to its next destination.
Be grateful for the difference it made for you while sharing your space.
Whatever you do, try not to make it what it isn't.

Loosen your grip. Let go.

Let go.

TTS: Interludes of Life

07:20p.m., Tuesday, 8 March 2016

Happy Precious Memories.

Been a while since I said that.

I think I'm ready to escape the rat-race. Permanently. I'm not even sure how I landed here in the first place -- being as entrepreneurially minded as I am, but it was a necessary and invaluable journey that's put me far closer to where I need to be. Closer than I would've ever been had I not taken it.

I love my job, but I don't want to be complacent. When it's time to move on, I will. There's just so much to do and see, and I'm afraid being confined behind my desk won't help much in that regard.

I'd still love to spend a year or two travelling the world before I settle down, and I doubt I'll ever get to do that on the 9-5 cycle.

I'd eventually like to buy my time back.

TTS: Interludes of Life

21:52 p.m., Thursday, 18 August 2016

Home

He crossed my mind twice these past couple of days. I still wonder if he thinks of me; if he feels like an assholed punk for doing what he did. 

But karma. HA!

Thing is, I was always confused. And for the first time today, I admitted to myself that he left me feeling disappointed. And hurt. Just when I thought I was ready to let my guard down and fall hopefully in love, he pulled the rug from under my feet and woke me to yet another awful reality. For a change, I want to write my feelings as they come without censoring myself. I don't think he's remorseful though. As shitty as it feels thinking about it, I know it's true. I pretended like the meteor never touched me. But it blow up in my face and it scarred. Maybe not necessarily because of him, but because no one wants to ever feel let down. 

It's a strange thing, this loneliness. I'm not lonely-lonely, but I often do miss male affection and companionship on an intimate level. I just never want to feel like I'm doing the settling thing. God, that's far worse than anything I know. And I'm terribly bad at it.

I'm usually overcome by this destabilising feeling of social pressure when around couples, or at malls, or banks. I tend to feel like I'm one of those manufactured human beings, being groomed into consumerism, milked for my labour and brainwashed into stupidity. I feel I'm deliberately exhausted by "life" itself and forced into a constant state of routine so that I never amount to anything more than an overrated underachiever, glorified brand whore and corporate blind sheep. 

I can't begin to express how nauseated I am at the thought of being plied with romantic garbage that wouldn't float in my waters for even a minute. As much of a romantic I am, I'm mindboggingly cynical about what relationships mean to me. I'm not sure I even know yet. I just know they should feel less like playing Mommy and Daddy, and more like living in a natural friendship. Romantic relationships often feel too orchestrated. “Do this if you want her to love you. Say that if you want him to fall head over heels in love with you. Walk on toothpick soled shoes and tie a modern noose around your neck if you want him/her to find you attractive. Be a lot less like yourself. Be more like the processed boys and girls you see online.” I can't stand it. Everything about us feels like something we were told to be, or do. It overwhelms me at times. (If I sound like one of those conspiracy theorists, or love cynics who bombard the world of social media, I'm off to a good start.) It really does scare me. And it overwhelms me just as much. It's no wonder very often, I feel saturated by information and sensory overload. I simply want to be. Just. Be. Even for one minute each day. I know I've unconsciously put myself in this position because I allow myself to be sucked further into this illusive vacuum on a daily basis, but I'm glad I have the awareness to realise when I've gone terribly wrong. 

Now back to the romantic relationship part… I don't mean to sound like a hypocrite. I love love. I love anything that seems to be associated with love. I just don't appreciate the pretentious, unnatural, predictable assumed side to it. All that romantic stuff that makes us swoon – the sweet texts, surprise gifts, handwritten letters… that's all fine. I just have issues with the way we speak about the realities of relationships in movies, TV shows, social media, magazines. It's sickening, actually. I don't buy what any of these folks are selling. Not the Insta pictures. Not the Facebook statuses. Nothing. 

But "L"... he was love. 

And Pumla and Nici are love.

And my parents are love. 

And my loved ones are love. 

And I am love. 

And life is love. 

Love is all I need. 

TTS: Interludes of Life

12:59 p.m., Saturday, 3 September 2016
VOW

I can't remember the last time I was intimate with my bed since August commenced. I mean lazing about, with two or so books lingering some place between my comforter and pillows -- just the way I like it. Having absolutely nothing to do is a bliss. Truth be told, I haven't given my reading as much attention as I should. I seem to always be rushing through pages, and reading only on my way to, and occasionally from work. There's just so much to read, and I'm impatient to get through the best stuff. In 2014, I read 42 books. This year, I've barely finished six. It's embarrassing, really, and tarnishing to my competitive spirit. It's not too late, though, I can still catch up once things go back to normal.

I must say, I'm enjoying all the sequential outdoor activity. It's wonderful meeting new people, so is shyly ogling at a gorgeous, secretly flirtatious man before he offers to buy me a drink. And we ogle more tonight at RMBA in Newtown! I'm more excited for tomorrow's one with Black Coffee at Zone 6 in Soweto. I've never seen him live, and I'm in no way an ardent fan, but his music tends to have a strong hold over me.

Again, I gotta go. Got a braai in Greenstone to attend first.

TTS: Interludes of Life

21h02 p.m., Friday, 2 September 2016
VOW fm

I feel obliged to send a special shout out to The Perfect Stranger. I had 36 page views today, and I feel he may be responsible for all of them. Hi, there! Thanks again for the incredible gift. I'm prepping myself (in other words, procrastinating) for a short story writing competition I'm entering this month, and the gift, The Paris Reviews: Object Lessons, couldn't have come at a better time. Here's the thing about getting books as gifts that blows me away: there are millions of books in the world. A few hundred thousands at a warehouse. Thousands at a library. Hundreds at a bookstore. And that one precious gem -- seemingly by magic, ends up in your hands. Of course, a party-pooper will come from somewhere and add that CDs and clothing are manufactured the same way, but someone can know your favourite artist or your favourite print and remember that forever. You could argue that people could know your favourite author, too, but the arduous task of going through a bookstore -- considering taste, genre and readability, looking for the right book, can't be compared to picking the perfect pair of earrings. It's a carefully thought out gift, and the person probably considered a lot (most likely eve stalked you) to get it right. That's why I treasure all my books.


My sister's complaining that I'm writing this instead of partying the night away, so I gotta go...

Goodnight, folks!

TTS: Interludes of Life

12:19 p.m., Tuesday, 16 August 2016

I left Half of a Yellow Sun behind at work yesterday.

Damn it.

So heartbreaking. I was on my way home when I realised I hadn’t taken it off of the shelf next to my desk. (That anxiety creeps in when I'm engrossed in a good book.) I contemplated getting out of my usual ride home to go back for it, but didn’t for lack of a better reason. It kept me unsettled for most of the night. My poor book, all alone, with no one to peruse and embrace it. I should’ve put it in my bag. I should’ve left it on my desk where it would’ve jumped out at me before leaving. I should’ve… But I didn’t. I’ll admit that I may be a tad too attached to my books. Even the not-so-good ones. This might be the perfect time to exercise my detachment, non-judgement and inner-nonresistance. I think I’ve done a pretty OK job so far, but there’s always room for improvement.

On that note: I meditated again this Sunday after eons. For about 20 minutes. It was a brief but nourishing taste of serenity. My mind was typically restless, but I was able to maintain a certain level of focus throughout. It still helped. A lot. Very often, when I feel I’ve neglected myself, going within myself is the best fix. It’s a cure for any disease really: Failure, disaster, sickness. Men. I’m asking myself why I don’t do it regularly since it works.

Don’t have an answer.

I just overthink it, I guess.


- Trace