Sometimes I can’t stop writing. 

It’s as though the words are at war with each other in my head, about who gets to ‘get out’ first- this is difficult, because structuring sentences in between these flurries of fighting words, is quite the task. 

I just got into bed. It’s quite chilly tonight- unusual for the usual South African climate. My toes are icy cold compared to the rest of my snug body. It’s such an inexplicable feeling, though- the cool surface of my feet reassures me that I am not a robot; that I am in fact a human being (a fact I often have to contest with myself to ensure its validity). The simple sensation of cool toes is overwhelming me.

How can we so easily forget about the simplicities that bring us joy? How can we so easily shrug aside, and take for granted, the little facets of life that bring subconscious grins to our otherwise grim faces? There is so much to be appreciative of in life. Life. The strangest concept to ever exist. How can we be gifted with the present of living, but it is imminent to have that very gift taken away from us, and us taken out of the present? 

Life is so very, very misinterpreted. I am not claiming that I know the answers (if there even are any), but I am claiming to know that we do not actually know what we in fact need to know: Life is the beginning of the end. This is, of course, assuming that reincarnation is a fallacy that we grip onto to dispute finite mortality. But if we are to look at the very essence of life- everything begins, exists, and then dies. 

Now: What we do during the exist phase, is integral to our true purpose. Do we even have a true purpose, you might ask, if we just die at the end of the day? Well, yes. We all have something we need to achieve within our lifetime in order for us to feel as though we can finally rest when the time comes. I’m not actually sure how much heed I can pay to my own theory. I’m filled with contradicting hypotheses about where we go after we die- perhaps a rich and colourfully vivacious cosmos, where the stars welcome us home and sparkle merrily  at our return. Ha! Idealistic? Mayhap. But how sensational would that actually be? 

This is where it gets tricky: We have earthly ties. We are bound to the ground. We want to possess things. We want to possess people. We want to have, have, have. What do we actually do with all this stuff once we pass on? Give it to our offspring? To gain sentimental value? How on earth did we reach the point where an ordinary cupboard is deemed to be an important and sentimental artifact, passed down from our ancestors generations back? Why does stuff possess more significance than the poetry of life that people leave behind? 

When I speak about ‘poetry of life’, it is naturally a metaphor. But I also believe it can be transformed into a practical interpretation. Think about it: We all leave behind some form of footprint in other people’s lives. This footprint, and the accompanying emotions and circumstances attached to it, are of your design. Your footsteps flow like poetry: Verses and lines and rhymes (decisions and choices and mistakes) that people can often not make sense of, as they are so subjectively articulated. But there is beautiful construction within the strings of words, and hence array of footprints, that are left behind. 

Life is thus: The opportunity to write the most exquisite poem; the opportunity to leave behind an extraordinary array of footprints. Yet- and this is important- footprints get washed away, and poetry fades over time. 

– The memory of you will be lost and forgotten –

And that’s ok- you were just what the world needed at that time. 




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