Chalkboard Grafitti in Soba fields

The thing with walking in the middle of a rain storm in central town is that there is nowhere to take shelter. The first translucent drops would fall from the sky like heavy sunflowers seeds mulling in the ploughs.

The city wasn’t a place for a girl whose heart was set on the bright blue skies of the countryside and the warm summer nights when the stars seemed so close that you could reach out and touch them. You could stretch your eyes and like a dozen mountains vanishing in front of them, so would the oblivious fields of soba and English daisies. Yet it calls to me like a new born heifer to its mother. Where are you? I am here. Please take me back into your open arms.

Your dawn nostalgia clings to me like dandelion pollen, whisping me high into the air. When you’re a sapling, you don’t appreciate the more than modest barren landscapes of the Namibian valleys, or the lush Kwa Zulu Natal mountains. You don’t see the beauty there is in rows of Jakob Regop’s and you don’t care for the abundance of waterfalls in Eastern Freestate.

The bright pink Neon lights of the inner city calls to you. The wet streets with lights reflecting off of them, the stench of back ally dumpsters and the glare of a supermodel dressed in Armani Faux fur coats.

The scoff of the burns latched onto the outer sides of the dress you so desperately clung to, the hillsides and yonder no longer match up to the predestined chalk graffiti. The sea and the messages left by sirens for their long lost sailors can not manage their most sincere dear johns. May the sun shine upon the shores of your island. May the volcanoes rest and may your slow burn relish in the fields of Asphault that you so desperately wanted.

(Art by me, drawn with Huion Tablet)