Memoirs in a Mirror

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Might not relate, might relate to people.
Just open up and explore an insert into my life.

My remains battered and bruised, and my mind, hopeful and confused...
swagger gracefuly with every ounce of my being.
But these scars have left me prudent and mindfully militant, if not intelligently conscience
Part shadow of my former-self and predccesor to my prospective persona
A mix of today's yesterday, and tomorrow's forseeable future.
Life took my hands from the stars and found me footing on Mother Earth.
A product of vulnerable, nappy-kissed, tearful beginnings
And I can still see the resemblance in the mirror, but now shrewd and cynical.
The brutal realist. An alter-ego rife with contempt and sarcasm.
A reflection with no inhibitions but is still able to unconditionally embrace an almost elusive sense of serenity (a trait that makes it the envy of it's naive, idealist counterpart).
The antedote to this fruitless sanity.
Yet both constituents of the greta sage inside me that is yet to see the light of day.
But as I throw more blows at my concieted reflection, the more wounds I inflict on myself.
I've become accustomed to the salty (used-to-be nauseating) taste of blood seeping from my mouth.
A few black eyes from a tussle in the primary school playground, and a car accident.
Some spots left behind by those teenage pimple-squeezing years.
A few framed pictures on the wall, in a shoe box and some lost in time.
A heart riddled with so many stitches it's impossible to recall how many times it's been hurt, broken, cold, angry, dissapointed or turned to stoned.
Invicible lashings lie etched in brown skin that bled, healed on it's own, and bled some more.
The unwavering respect for a Father's authority (and belt), a Mother's hand and care, and a Grandmother's wisdom.
A wrinkle from a worried frown (after hurting a younger Sister, an impromptu intervention and shutting her up before uBaba or uMa  heard of it); another for a guilt-stricken youngster who snatched a Milo chocolate bar and shoved into his underpants before the shop steward unravelled their 'perfect' heist.
A tremor of apprehensive anticipation (from a distressed friend notifying us of a Father who'd been shot while closing one of his containers) still lingers in my throat; another, more dumfounded one, for three pairs of tiny feet that frightfully crepted into 'their' cande-lit bedroom only to walk out knowing they'd never see their Dad again after next Saturday's sunset.
Memories of familiar faces with forgotten names that were only ever seen at family reunions, weddings, funerals and imisebenzi.
A picture of more than just a thousand words captured in a mirror look-alike.
Unseen traces of razor rash concealed by a bottle of meths that closed a three year chapter of dreadlocks.
A plethora of secrets swept under the carpet (and under my skin, courtesy of a few bribes and 'fortune of luck').
A fast toungue inherited from seeking refuge in Hip-Hop, lost arguements and a rebellious post pubescence.
A parent's taste in Jazz that eventualy rubbed off, and is sometimes the only nostalgic connection to a disappearing past.
Dreams of profound greatness and concord that walk not alone but carry with them reserved seats for Life's Great Auditorium.
One reserved for some more disappointment.
Another for the unthinkable death of a loved one.
A few for promissory conclusions that will never be concluded.
All there amongst the part shadow of my former-self and predeccesor to my prospective persona.
Amongst the framed pictures on the wall, in the shoe box and those still lost in time.
Adjacent the wrinkles and opposite the memories of familiar faces with forgotten names.
Concealed with the secrets swept under the carpet.
A mass of bone, blood, cartilage and tissue defined by actions, thoughts and experience; and an alter-ego.
A conscience still fighting itself only to make itself stronger.
Numb to feeling and emotion.
A reflection, a look-alike, a resemblance (laughing back at a it's opposite)
A paranoiah that wades through the shallow rivers of a indecisive mind.
Afraid of itself, afraid of it's potential.
And yet still amazed at itself and it's potential.
A voice in a mirror, and a man standing in front of it.

Submitted: April 05, 2007

© Copyright 2021 ngedwa. All rights reserved.

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