Writing to Fate

-
Hans Burgkmair the elder (1473 - 1531). RA Collection
When times became unkind to me, I wrote a prayer to fate, telling it to have mercy on me, for I was but an innocent lamb, and it replied with a noose around my neck and a stool at my feet. I wrote to fate, to tell it that my days had become harsh and unfair, but it told me to sit and pray, like all the other mortals. I told it that my master had closed his eyes and heart to me, but it told me that I was not loud enough. It told me to stand on the rooftop, to rend my clothes and to pierce my skin in holy supplication, but I told it that my knees were weak and my will was like a sunken well, of no use. I told it that I wanted to pray with my heart, but that was where it hurt most and it told me that I was too far from redemption.
I wrote to fate and told it that my lips were chapped and that my throat was raspy, and it told me to accept my sentence, to serve like the prisoner of life, to live trapped like a rogue and greedy mouse. When I pressed it to the wall, fate said to me that I was a victim, and it would grant me the gift of death, whether by guns or swords, I do not know, but now I can see, the poison that flows in my veins, the poison that is blood, the poison that is vigor and strength that has to be fetched from the far reaches of my existence. Fate is replying my letter in its red ink, in the venom that is persistence. Maybe I had been too blind or ignorant to read, for fate always wrote between the lines. Maybe I had been too loud to hear the silent scrawls of the of the carver’s knife engraving in stone, but now that I have gone silent, I pray for peace, for an end, for the gift that fate has wrapped in a box. It was not the answer I wanted, but maybe it was the answer I needed. I wrote to fate, to return me back to the days of my innocence, and it replied with clubs and knives in my back, in my heart

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

-
If we must die If we must die, let it not be like cows in the slaughter, walking willingly into the bloodbaths, too meek to resist and too trusting to argue. Let us die like buffaloes in a lion chase or ants in a midday march. Let us die like termites in search of freedom in a hostile world. If we must die, let it not be like birds caught in storm or a deer by a hunter’s spear. Let it not be like foxes caught in traps or flies landing on fire. If we must die, let our death not be told to those with faint hearts and loud wails. Let it not be known by those women who know not to keep their mouth shut. Let it not be told to those frail and on the brink lest they tilt over. If we must die, let the news be hushed and kept silent. Let everyone be told that we refused to be vanquished, that the flame refused to be extinguished. Let them be told that it is not graves but a mound full of seeds and flowers. Lord, if we must die, let us waft out into your presence like sacred incense. Send a ch...
Read more
-
Where did you go? I am a walking carcass hoping for a wind strong enough to carry me away, a rain harsh enough to dissolve me into a lump of soil. If I could erase all these memories and go back to the days before I met you, I would. But how sad that I roll in torture during the night and burn during the day. Tell me, old friend, you who made me feel special and important, where did the wind take you? Should I cry for time that conspired against us or should I let you shoulder the burden? I have been reduced into a mess of tears and regret. I have lost my trust and my confidence, come to me, you who gave me strength and take me with you. Tell me I was dreaming and tuck me back to sleep. Smother me with the pillow so I will not wake from this, for what is life, when she that I adored and loved in equal measure walked out on me? Look at me now as I wade knee deep in mud and slime, look at me as I stretch my hands to take you back but oh how far away you are. Come messiah, before...
Read more
-
I see in the news everyday children in tattered clothes walking the streets of Somalia, Burundi and even South Sudan. They look at cameras with their yellow jaundiced eyes, all a picture of pain, hunger and sorrow. And yet we choose either not to care or ignore their plea. Fat men and fat women sit on their tables heaped with food they don’t even eat with the television to keep them company yet, back in those countries, men lay dead in the fields, women walk around forlorn and forsaken. We see a child running up and down screaming and crying looking for their parents among a pile of bodies. We just sigh and change the station, and that is just about it. I see men with mucus in their noses and shuffling with sticks due to their amputated legs, their eyes etched into the distance, hope a very foreign word for them. We claim that Africa is held together by bonds of brotherhood. Which brotherhood or Africa for that matter are we talking about? I see a continent operating on whims of...
Read more