IN MEMORIAM: A MONOLOGUE

in #fiction5 years ago

If I told you that life is beautiful, would you believe me? Would you even understand what I mean by me finding beauty in life?


sun-3726030_1280.jpg
pixabay: Kordi_vahle


You never could see the world the way I saw it. You questioned every light, every scented flower, every smile, every light step. What made you so? What made you see shadows instead of light? Pain instead of the sweetness of pleasure? Death instead of life?

At first, I tried to understand you but the further I crept into your world, the dirtier and corrupted I became. When I tried to pull out of the debris of your mind, you called my determination to retain my sanity, a betrayal. Ha betrayal?

I was losing myself in your world. I was seeing the shadows too clearly and I was beginning to find pleasure in pain. I was beginning to enjoy my sadness and loneliness and revel in my depression but no! That was not a way to live.

I could still remember the moon on the lapping waters that ripples sent from the sea to the shore. I could still remember the setting sun in the distant horizon; that orange glow that seemed to call me forth on a journey to see the end. I could still remember the beauty of the female form, the sweetness of a kiss, the softness of warm skin on the palms of my caressing hand. I could still remember the taste of palm oil stew with fresh fish and rice on the tip of my tongue. I could still remember the laughter of friendships that had weathered long years. I could not leave all of those things. They made me feel.

Yes, they are fleeting. This is true but is it not the shortness of these little bright spots that makes them treasures that should never be forgone, or forgotten? Yes the night is long but does that mean that one should dwell in the depth of its nightmares? What is wrong with choosing to enjoy the sun?

When you left in disgust, I felt pain. I will not deny it but you also gave me the freedom to grow, you gave me a chance to find myself. I can see now that parting ways with you was the best thing you ever did for me. Who knows if I would not be down there with you if we had stuck on.

It pains me to see you like this, motionless, eyes closed, hands still, your beautiful eyelashes clothing your cheeks. It pains me to see the paleness of your ebony skin, the blackness of your full lips and to know that I will never hear your voice again.

I know you would have laughed heartily or cursed crazily if you were able to see the bridal dress they forced on you. You were no saint and you never believed in God. Your mother made a row out of it so they got you a bridal dress. You would have looked perfect in it, dancing if you had ever bothered to try.

I like to think that you are in a place where you are always happy. I like to picture you in this white dress, dancing on a beach, the sea between your toes, music and the moon weaving in the night air. I like to hope that wherever you are now, the pain has stopped and the nightmares have faded into a negligent memory.

Your hands were folded to hide the razor wounds on your wrists. Your mother tells everyone who cares to listen that you slipped and fell and her eyes demand that I keep that last secret secure. We do not want to mess things up now, do we? Even in your passing, they are still trying to control your life. It is just sad. Goodbye my friend.



I am finding it difficult to write planned posts nowadays. Most of my stuff now are spontaneous freewrites which I do not really plan out. Sometimes, they turn into poetry and sometimes prose. Sometimes they are as confused as I am, neither here nor there.

The above writing is one of those confused pieces. I actually wanted a poem but after two lines, I realized that I was writing too many poems. I was not trying hard anymore. For me, crafting a piece of poetry is like breathing.

Crafting a piece of prose or nonfiction even is the same as bloodletting, a rather painful process. Yet it is my prose and nonfiction that helps me grow in my poetry. They show me what separates fiction from poetry, my diction, structure, figures of speech and whatnot. It is like I use fiction writing as a soubdingboard. The more prose I write, the better I become at writing poetry. I don't know if I make sense but this is what it is.


©warpedpoetic, 2018.

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These days, I find it very hard to read any fiction/nonfiction/anything without a tune of poetry to it. Little wonder I always enjoy your work whether youre confused or not. There's always poetry to dance to and that's enough for me even if I don't know why.. maybe because that's the only thing that gives maximum climax to my mind.

I have spoilt you with the good stuff eh? I think it is the same for me when I write. I want to capture the words in ways that tell the story as if in a song. I am just glad that people appreciate it.

I'd say you gave me what I've longed for for a long time: writings that are more than just words and sentences bootstrapped on a page, writings that always give meaning to my overall being once I'm done reading. Thank you!

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