There is a simple beauty in the possession of a thought; a single eye; a blame scale; a faulty memory. There is a sound pleasure in wrestling with the past and conforming to the inability to conform. At times, my midnight battles are not with sleep or strange spirits; neighbours hammering on brick walls or frog croaks, lovers moaning, moon dancing or twilight’s stretch, mine are with thoughts. The thoughts to conquer and those that come conquered.

There is a simple reckoning in colours; submissive as they may appear to the eyes…eye. And then the sublime seduction to gloat freely in the boastings of the past. I see at times that most human battles are with the past. What was I that I am not? What did I not know that I now know? When was it – life – good or when was evil not naught? Sometimes, we hate from the past only to see our souls prosper the love to hate from the past. Its challenging to fight that battle here with a single eye but what isn’t it? It’s best to dwell on definition and for hate, it’s tricky but one must know that the definition of hate as the love to hate is not simpler yet this is not the battle. The battle is and has almost never left the past.

Referring to the past and its misgivings, I found hope belated and in a somersaulting plane I found the beauty of unholy chants best left uncharted. My scribbling is slow-hearted; pardon me, I suffer from the guilty of a self-love session. However, I have found it a blessing to testify of a mile of forgetfulness; for there is a beauty in forgetfulness.

There is a humble joy in forgetfulness and the musing of the act…art of forgetfulness and I mark transitions this way. I mark them by simply forgetting. This time, it is a long plane to cross: A weighty cross to bear: about forgetting and simply forgetting thoughts which battle with me at night or dream-chasing. It’s is a drug at times to forget this season: Forgetting sand-roads and mist rising from cars pursuing cars.

Forgetting rock-pathways and skyline streams; letting night sparkles from mountain caps go. Forgetting a rushing carnal which was my neighbour; forgetting music in the guise of language, cursing in Twi. Most spectacularly, forgetting the place where a sailor-at-sea curse for a voice is always eminent. Forgetting a hill filled with beggars; begging for attention, loving the shouts of conflict until the bad economy seals their lips to fend for food…or vend food for food.

Forgetting playful Lebanese bike-riders and money sucking warehouses; money stalking warehouses. Forgetting about semi-nude women who plead guilty to nudity proudly on the charges of fashion and vogue with young adults loving the trend of kneevage-showcase which is simply parallel to four-year event that reveals the shocking price we pay to get sold – the common beauty in paradoxes of fishes dying while trying to feed.

I bless the similitude of my battle for in my aimless strife to forget. I remember it all coming and leaving as vividly as they have always been. Do I bless the creator of memory for His creation? Yes, and for the single eye which is the light of the body, house of the soul.


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