The Hole Between Us…

It’s like falling into an abyss, a dark hole to which there is no bottom. All you do is fall and fall and keep on falling. After the first few seconds of screams are over, your mind begins to deceive you that you are not in any immediate danger. “Maybe this is how skydivers feel”, it coerces, wanting you to drop your guard. You take a moment and consider it, “He may be right” you say. You tell yourself that it’s not as bad as it looks.

Despite the fact that you are falling to your doom, you loosen your muscles, unclench your fist and open your eyes. You begin to look around and catch a glimpse of your surrounding: to that open window over there and the doctor having a smoke behind the service delivery entrance of the cancer rehabilitation center; away from the prying and judgmental eyes that may seek to crucify him for his supposed betrayal: his inability to quit smoking. You see the teenager about to take 20 sleeping pills and the one in the bath tub with a razor blade in his hand. You see the dance tutor who is desperate to catch the attention of one of his students, whom he loves beyond that which is humanly possible but who is under the curse of the friend-zone. You see his desire to save her from all the jerks and doodoo heads that she always seems to attract but has been denied the chance to.

Your heart begins to bleed as you see all of this pain and sorrow hidden in the cauldron of night; the many tear soaked pillows that tell many a heart wrenching tale. You momentarily forget yourself, saying a prayer for them to whomever will hear and hope that theirs will not be as yours. For the author of your story has all but sealed your fate.

You are still falling, falling through time and this time, you get to watch the greatest and worst horror flick of all; worse than The Exorcism of Emily Rose or The Conjuring; you are made to watch the highlight reel of your existence; of a life you had squandered. You get a chance to see who you would have turned out to be had you made better choices: had you partied less and loved more; had you saved more and spent less; had you given your life a value tag rather than allowing it to be dragged through the Mick and Cranny for worthless relationships and short lived thrills.

I look at the man I would have become and find myself at a loss; not for words but for sight, for a vision I should have had but didn’t. I am sad; sad for the many people that have, and continue to suffer because of my selfishness; for the many that will never experience freedom or lasting fulfillment due to my passivity; the tears and anguish of those who are forever resided to their gloom, all because I was not brave enough to chase after my hearts desire.

I would have gone back, back to repentance, to seek for mercy and hit the refresh button…but I can’t. For mine is a story in its final chapter; the curtain call is in, it is time to take a bow. The show has been a disaster but that ship has sailed. As I keep falling, my audience flashes through my mind and I begin to weep; not for having failed Him, but for having failed myself in front of Him. He gave me all I needed and made all possibility possible but then I blew it. I became a disappointment and in my shame, I ran and hid from Him. I caused a rift between us, a hole, a crevice too massive to be filled, and forever it is what shall be used to describe me: the gap that separates us, the hole that stands between us.

I close my eyes and wait for the inevitable; the fate that I have succumbed to. I dread what comes next…

The Lonely Stoner

It’s not a particularly interesting night. The dark sky is cloudy causing a characteristic gloom to spread across the land. The moon has long packed her bags and disappeared into the night. She could take the competition no more and has given in to the cloud’s quest for fame.

The only thing that has refused to give in to the darkness is the sole street light at the corner. All its comrades have since been turned and are now rallying for the dark side but this one has stayed resolute. It’s orange glow is fast fading and we fear it will soon succumb to the swoon of the flirtatious darkness. Periodically, it flickers with the intent to quit but, against all odds, it glows back to life. It continues to give hope for the many souls that throng it, looking for solace and salvation.

As I stand below its orange gaze, it creates a silhouette of hope and peace over my already tired and weary soul. In that brief and intricate moment, the chastening over my life choices ceases and tranquility is restored. As I stare into that dim yellow light, I am taken up into a trance, taken up into another reality where I am all I have ever wanted to be…I am happy.

The 1 a.m. wind feels cold. It causes little goose bumps to form on my already pale skin. I run my hands over my arms in a bid to keep myself warm from the numbing cold. I can feel the numerous wounds and scars on my skin as each scrambles to tell its tale of resilience and survival. It has been a rough couple of days and it’s kinda hard to imagine that I made it this far. I remember of the time when I had flawless skin (Cleopatra had nothing on me), a warm bed and people who cared for me. This is where my discrepancies have brought me to. I pull my button up satin shirt closer to my chest, hoping that it will help me brave this East London weather.

With shaking hands, I lift the smoldering cigarette butt to my lips and take a last drag; aware that it’s going to be a while till I can get my hands on another. The smoke fills my lungs, warming me up yet almost chocking me. The sensation is momentary but an oh-so-welcome relief. As the smoke dissipates into nothingness, it narrates the story of my slowly wasting existence.

It has been 3 hours since my last fix. I can slowly feel the withdrawal symptoms marshalling their troops in readiness to ambush me. I am desperate. I need to get me some; to numb my feelings; to blur my mind. I need to be back in my zone; to escape reality and to seal the voice of my conscience. If only I knew how to cure the wound in my heart and remove the scar on my soul.

The burden is too great to bear and the pain too much to take. I desire an escape, to soar through the wind on the wings of my fantasy. I wish it was easier and that things could get back to how they were; to the days of innocence and nights of peace; to rainy summer afternoons and rolling through that autumn leaves; to nights of looking up at the stars and wondering if they ever get lonely.

I don’t remember how I got here, but I know one thing for sure; I don’t want to be here. I hate this abyss, this barren wasteland with a callous heart. It has sucked all positivity out and has chocked the life of all my dreams. And to crown it all off, it has given me a bed mate who I can’t shake off; a thorn in my flesh; a habit I cannot kick; a demon I cannot cast out. It drags me down by day and keeps me up at night.

This is my plight; my fight for all eternity. For I am, the lonely stoner.♠


I think I have been unfaithful to my gift. It’s really been a long time since I sat down and actually took time to cultivate and nurture it. I have spent too much time indulging and concentrating on other things and I have abandoned her.

She is not happy: I know this because when I was still a good partner, she was uncontrollably jovial and would, without hesitation, jump at me without occasion; almost tackling me to the ground, like a hungry lion on the tail of a wildebeest in the Serengeti. She had this glow about her and when she opened her mouth to speak, milk and honey flowed out.

It was captivating: she had this charismatic vibe to her; at any one point when she was ready to bare her soul, you couldn’t help but drop everything and give her your attention. Talk about having a hold on you.

She was always, and I guess she still is, very open with me. I always got the juiciest of stuff from her; the kind of scoops that Perry White would kill for [If you don’t know who this is, then what are you watching?] It is the kind of stuff that reporters and writers compromise their integrity for; the kind that in no way could be obtained legally; like the original painting of the Mona Lisa or shots of Barbra Gordon in the bat girl suit at comic con. She only gave me the best; beautiful masterpieces that by far surpassed even my greatest expectations. The kind of creations that every author dreams of, that Shakespeare, upon hearing, would cuss while turning in his grave for not having thought of such in the first place.

I have had with me the very best that any person in the literary arts could have searched or hoped for, but I have taken her for granted. I have denied her quality time and no longer get intimate with her; I no longer tell her how amazing she is, despite my seeing it every day; I don’t even listen to her anymore.

Damn it!! I have hurt her

7a9b73e56b43b3fdee13166a1d0a2a6aI feel the pain she goes through and see how bad a toll it has taken on her. She stopped singing and no longer wants to listen to music. Even her dressing has changed; I am told that she has burned all her summer dresses and given away all her party shoes. Right now, all she does is walk around the house in an oversized construction T-shirt. She sits around all day, eating ice cream, and perfecting her aim by throwing knives at the portrait of Stewie Griffin that hangs in our living room.

But you know what?

I have come to my senses. I’m going back to her, to apologize to her in the hope that she will take me back and give me another chance; a chance to make it right with her; to prove to her that I do value and care for her more than anything in this world.

I am no longer just going to say how I feel but show it too. I will make her a nice diner, buy a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc (it’s her favorite), some Swiss chocolate, 200 long stem roses (the sight of roses causes her eyes to light up) and call in that favor that Anthony Hamilton owes me. I plan to lay my heart bare and vulnerable before her and hope that she will take it back.

I did her wrong; I just hope my transgression is not beyond penance

The Broken Plate

I open my eyes to the blinding lights that stream in through my bedroom window. My head is heavy, my mouth has the distinct aftertaste of cigarettes and my throat is dry. My eyes are sore and itchy. My face feels sticky and dirty. I lift my head and see the dirty outline of my face on my pillow. Sitting up is a great battle but I finally manage to sit up and open my eyes to the sight that is my matrimonial bedroom. I lazily lift my feet off the bed and place them on the floor. Looking up, I look into my wardrobe mirror and I catch a glimpse of the horror that is my face; my hair is in a mess with ties and knots, most of the make up from one half of my face remained on the pillow, my eye pencil had traced a path down my face to signify the path my flowing tears had carved out. Most of last night is a blur, with bits and pieces coming in flashes.

I immediately notice a funny smell and I run my eyes around, following the trail of the smell so as to discover where it is coming from. I bend down and catch a glimpse of my dress from last night, well, the remainder of it. I lift it to my nose and immediately discover my mistake for the pungent stench from the cloth is horrendous. One of my heels is right next to where the dress was and I notice the heel is broken while the other is nowhere in sight.

And then reality strikes…

Did Jim really just up and leave?

Seven years of marriage and all of a sudden I am cold product. Seven grueling years of pulling him out of all the gutters and pits he had gotten himself into. Seven years of paying his debts, and need I say of how many times I have had to personally call his boss to apologize for his complacency. All the sacrifices I have made not only as a woman but as a person. Having put my career on hold to help him pursue his. How I had given up my smashing body just to have his children. 4 children in seven years is not the easiest thing to do. To be a wife, to be a friend to such a man had drawn the very last of my strength. But I held on, I mean, that is what you do for those you love. You give your all at the expense of yourself. My family disowned me, my friends abandoned me and I lost all traces of a social life just for him. “Me and you against the world baby”, that’s what he told me everyday, and I believed him. And all this while I thought we were a team

Then he comes back home last night, packs his bags and tells me he has had enough. Puts his key on the table and walks out the door. I follow him out into the rain, trying to talk to him but he does not even look at me. He gets into his car and drives off, leaving me kneeling on the ground. I stand up and run after his car, shouting his name, while tears and rain partially blind me. I run till my lungs give in. Most of what happened after that made no entry into my head. Maybe this strange but strong smell on my now soiled dress had something to do with it.

What? How? Why?

These are the thoughts that run through my mind as I feel the tears well up in my eyes again. I let them flow. I begin to feel numb and heavy as all I can think of is the emptiness inside. As the tears trickle down my face, they tell the story of the broken plate that is my heart.


I am particularly intrigued by art. It’s a fancy that I have developed in the recent years of my life. I see art in literally everything: from a piece of writing to wind crafted contours in the sand. I see art in speaking and in drawing; in the birds of the air to the creatures of the see. I see it in colors and shades; in light and in darkness; in the gigantic and in the minute; in banter and in pin-drop silence. I am gifted with a proverbial antenna and an eye for art, and each passing day, I get to experience these diverse and awe-inspiring expressions crafted, carved, stroked and carved upon this canvas that we call life.

I have been quoted saying that life is, in essence, art. The modes of expression may be different and the jargon and dialects may vary but if you look closely, to the soul and skeleton of it, you will find that they are all saying the same thing. All that is needed of you is that you open your eyes and see.

d29398e1d052ec5554f7da2d5cba3c96One of the greatest tragedies is having life but not living. It is a sad sad reality that many people are merely existing; scrapping by day by day oblivious of who or where they are. We spend too much time worrying and being preoccupied by our obligations, responsibilities and what we have no control over that we fail to recognize the very important and fundamental fact; above all else, WE ARE…

I believe that is why art exists, to remind us of the beauty behind the madness; of the peace that exists amidst the chaos and the love that can be found at the base of every remark of hatred. Think about it, life without artistic expressions would be unbearable. I mean, it would suck. Not just suck, but sucky suck suck. It would be like staring at static on your television set; tasteless, annoying and a downright bog.

Funnily enough, in my younger years, I could not care less and neither was I good at art. I concluded that art was for lazy people who, unlike me, were not good at books. If only I knew what nature had in store for me, I would have bridled my tongue and kept it from uttering such profanity. For right now I am plagued by my vision and knack for spotting creativity. It ambushes me when I least expect it and forces itself onto me. In truth, there is no such thing as too much art and I take in as much as I can everyday as though it were my last.




I love it!


I love all of it and I don’t see myself being cured any time soon. I just love how it brightens my day and colors my soul. It makes me enjoy living even when I have nothing to be rejoicing about. I see it as a reflection of the beauty that is hidden in these earthen vessels; the glory that exudes every being and characterizes everything we see and touch. It causes all things to make sense and gets you interested at the prospect of facing another day.

It is all just, in a nutshell, breathtaking…



Hi, my name is Steve and I am a writer.

It has been 3 weeks and 2 days since I sat down to write something. I have to confess that I feel hung over; like some life flow has been lacking for some time. Several times I find myself detaching from normal human interactions due to feelings of incompleteness and low self-esteem. Time drags by and everything goes by in slow motion; it is as though I alighted prematurely from the bus headed for destiny and I am stranded at this one point. It feels as though I have awoken on a raft in the middle of the ocean not knowing for how long I have been adrift; who I am; on which version of which universe I am; what time it is; who you are; who is currently playing Bruce Wayne in the Batman franchise; the color of my mum’s dreadlocks or if she has ever had dreadlocks.

So, when I could bear it no more, I fell off the wagon and here I am. All the progress I have made gone down the drain. But you know what? I am the happiest I have ever been and I want to tell you why. So welcome to today’s session of Writers Anonymous.

The main reason why I love writing is because it is the only opportunity that I have to express myself with no apologies. I don’t have to explain myself and neither can I be restricted. I am free to let the craziness out and fully express how I am feeling. I love the rush of it; when it sets in, its like skydiving or taking a ride on a rollercoaster; you don’t know exactly what to expect or what is going to come out. The only sad part is that many a time my hands don’t move as quickly as my mind and I have frequently lost the umph of the moment. In spite of this mortal restriction, it absolutely rocks!

One thing that I love about being in the zone (yes, that’s how I call it), is how it makes you oblivious of everything that is around you. I love how all your senses come together in harmony as they produce the beauty and masterpiece that is in this form of art. Space and time cease to exist; food loses its taste and water cannot quench the parched throat. It is like adrenaline, only better; flirtatiously addictive in fact. It is your fortress of solitude that you run to when reality becomes unbearably mundane. On several occasions, I was so engrossed in my piece that I did not even notice when food was placed before me. It’s only when my wife taps me that I snap back to reality. She always has this look on her face that solicits some guilt out of me.

Okay, yes, it’s is true that it has gotten me into a fix once or twice but ask anyone who is in pursuit of passion and they will narrate an almost similar by-line.

I love how you can almost literally feel the flow of creativity from your brain through the entirety of your being. It takes you over and engulfs you in itself. It gives you a sudden high and your heart begins to palpitate in its cage, wanting to be set free; your palms get all sweaty and all you can do is wait in earnest for what will come out as though you are waiting to hear that Donald Trump is announcing his withdrawal from the presidential race. You get what I mean.

I like to write because in here I am free of any influence or pressures from society. I get to freely throw a jest here and there as an outpouring from my phlegmatic ‘leg’ without having to anticipate the fire and brimstone that accompany free expression. I get to stress on what I believe and expound on what I have doubts about. I add flesh to the lean and shine a light into the mammoth blanket of darkness that characterizes the common man; a darkness that has them blind with sight and deaf with unstopped ears. This is a bit of a paradoxical thought but a sad reality.

tropical_paradise_4-t2I write to give people a momentary escape from their present reality; to give them an escape to paradise; to put a drink in their hand; sand beneath their feet; RayBans over their eyes and a breeze in their hair.

However, after taking them there, I show them what they need to do to make this picture a permanent present reality. I like to usher people into a place where they get tired of the mediocre state they are living in. I prove to them that they can make the life of their dreams; that nothing, whatsoever it may be, is ever out of reach and that anything desired can be attained.

I am a believer that we have in us the potential and ability to attain the highest level of success, joy, peace, abundance, grace, beauty, wealth, power and dominion in our garden of Eden or area of purpose.

I write for those of you who think that this kind of life is superficial and the result of wishful thinking. To those whose background and upbringing has deceived them to the point of believing that this kind of lifestyle is only reserved to certain privileged individuals. For those who societal pressure and imposed obligations have forced to take paths that have neither joy nor fulfillment; those who curse at themselves for not having the courage to live their dreams or those whose lives are just too complicated and don’t know where to start. These are the people I think of every time I indulge myself into this passion.

I write to push people to empower themselves to go for what they want and then show them how to get it. I use my gift to challenge people to take responsibility of their destinies; to inform them that they are the only ones responsible for the quality of life they are living. I charge them to arise; stop blaming everyone for how they are living currently and take decisive steps towards what they want. I tell them that this world will never give you something just because you want it; or because you feel as though it has been unfair to you. I tell them that life is unfair and problematic to everybody and that makes life to be very fair. I tell them to stop whining and start working; to stop sitting around waiting for destiny to be dropped on their lap and to go out there and get it.

Finally, I write to give hope. Hope that all is not lost. Hope that it can get better and you can be more than you are perceived to be. Hope that you can make it in spite of the odds stacked against you. Hope that you can take back control of your life right now and make something out of it.

downloadThis, ladies and gentlemen, is why I had to fall back to this perdition. It is for these individuals that I could not sit back in this false state of ‘sobriety’. It was too enticing to deny and too loud to ignore.

This, is why I write…