BY NIKOLAI TJONGARERO
Lyrical users of speech. We abuse the language utilised with the goal of making their fantasies about what they most seem to need without the need to first achieve. Change moods we do indeed, because the escape we provide is a portal to a lost place in time that moves beyond what they could spiritually; physically or mentally succeed. For so long they felt shattered; shackled and rattled enough to hide their true potential and life blessings in the mask they wished to induce onto others as a whimsical lie. Yes, we lie. About the crimes we have and probably will again commit, left to embrace the creatures that have grown from what we once built to hide what was originally born and then forced to split.
The manuscript to the Sir Lancelot character of a fairytale has changed to the big-bad wolf playbook of how to achieve without the need for acknowledgment thereafter, however that wolf knows not how this has come to be. Why? Because acknowledging the fears would bring about an encounter with the very thing they have chosen to smite into the darkness hidden from the light, within the light. Making the cure the very demon of advanced measures of luminosity; willing to delve into and entrench itself within the paradoxes of those it lives vicariously through, and thus furthering the inability to do as the reliance to take upon the stigma and ridicule that might come with the fame and glory of the hustlers dream, could be true.
But how long can one remain in this plight to fight the self destructive fight? To the ends of no man standing as the last would have to, because of the existence of a self-made concious, commit suicide to the tune of a spiteful surprise? Why would this be the end? Because the burden of being ridden with the illustrious monstrosities that line the walls of the unwinnable fight, are the sanctities that this warrior must remain distant from at all costs no matter the level of his wishful hypothesis. Glory without the worry is the never ending path that can never be plotted as it does not and could never exist; this is merely resultant of the fact that they have already lived life before the glory and in that story are, not one but many, hidden truths locked within the invisible lines of the untold deception-based cries of times they were crude.
Uncivilised yet discerning to the fallacy left by the ambitious fools that never left their sight. Never able to understand why the thought of whether the answer to the question could lead right back to the question, without ever touching on the possibility of an endless circle of life devoid of the arbitrations of the truth-bound starry night could be just that, the truth. The night that could only be vanquished by the actual questions that fit the wanted answers and plights, because is that not what humanity tends to do at irrelevant intervals. To inadvertently and inexcusably pose the questions that lead to the answers they hold within the unnamed graves of their minds?
Could that be the truth about the lies?
Namibian-born Nikolai Tjongarero is a poet based in Cape Town. He has completed his first book – Accounts of a Mental Evolution. See his fan page here.
