Thursday, 25 August 2011

In one of my posts in this blog, I did a little intro about time. I likened time to boiling an egg, Jack Bauer and twitter. But really, when you think about it, time is much more than the readings and measurements on a clock, watch or sundial. Time isn't 2.30pm or 6.00am. Time is so much more.
Time is the continual passage of life. Time is a realization of existence. You see time when you look at your face or hands, and spot a wrinkle or a bulging vein that you can swear wasn't there yesterday. Its the understanding that even the most minor cuts and bruises on your skin don't heal as fast as they used to. Time happens when a friday night comes around and you can't even muster the will, let alone the strength, to go out and have a bit of fun.
Time is that nagging headache that comes after just a little bit of hard work. Its the swelling ankle that you thought was an old sprain acting up, but then the doctor tells is a stress related pain and you that your blood pressure is too high. You're there thinking "yo,when did I start fucking with high blood pressure?!" But all this while, its just Time happening.
All the above are of course also age related, so let me lean a little harder on Time.
Time makes you listen to more soft music and less hardcore rap. It convinces one of your closest friends, someone you grew up with and have had so many good and bad moments with, to suddenly cut off all communication with you, because in their opinion, you're not as mature or focused as they are. All of a sudden, everyone is getting married or having babies. Everyone is in some sort of committed relationship, and even though you've been the biggest advocate of the single life, every once in a while, you too start to wonder if getting a significant other is the way to go. Time is such a fucking bitch.
Everyday, I look at the clock in the office, wondering when 4 o'clock will come around, just waiting for a particular time to come, so that I can wrap up and go home. Unfortunately, this is just a nasty trick, because exactly 24 hours from then, I'll be looking at that same fucking clock, waiting for the exact same time to come around so that I can do the exact same thing I did yesterday. What's the use? Its like being in a weird dream, looking in a mirror, just to see your reflection looking in a mirror, in which that reflection is looking in a mirror, in which.....
Time takes away the people and things you love. In all our eyes, our parents haven't aged a day, they look exactly the same as the very day, 28 years ago, when you first opened your eyes and saw them. But this is an illusion. If you look just a little closer, you'll see Time trying to rob you of what's yours. Your mother suddenly looks like an old woman. Your grandmother, who just yesterday was bouncing you on her knee, has somehow lost 80% of her vision, can't walk around her own house anymore, for fear of bumping into random objects and now needs you to take care of her. How the hell are you supposed to do that?! You're just a fucking kid...., but look in the mirror, and time will tell you otherwise. Time is taking away your life slowly but surely. Its forcing you to become what you're nowhere near ready to become.
There's always been stories and tales of Time machines. Devices to pull us back through time and space. I wish someone would fucking invent one already. If I have to contribute the meager salary I earn for the next 10 years towards the creation of such a machine, I would gladly do so. Cos I know that when the machine is finally built, I'd hop right in and fuck off to back when things were all good.
Drake said 'I'm urging all daughters to kiss they mothers/ with those lips that all that lipstick covers/ you never too grown up to miss and hug her/'. This doesn't apply to just the ladies. Everyone, grab everyone you know and love and take a picture. Record every fucking moment you can with them, cos only the Good Lord knows when Time is gonna try and take them from you.
I'm so very sorry, I think I may have depressed you beautiful people again. My bad.
I am Womilee, and I'm running out of fucking time.....

Monday, 7 March 2011

7/3/2011

We all have day dreams don't we? Most of the people who know me on a personal basis know I'm very liable to say the darndest things, and this is of the result of the fact that I spend a large amount of time in my head. It a most incredible place to be honestly, filled wit fantastic colors and scenarios. What spews forth from my mouth is usually an interpretation of the effect of my surroundings and the environment I find myself in at any given time.
Now, I am a fan of music. This is an understatement to nullify all understatements. I am controlled by the music I listen to, and thus it gives birth to the day dreams I have. Lyrics by Biggie and Jay Z have made me fail in many a relationship and gotten me into countless physical altercations, while the words of Miss Alicia Keys (I refuse to accept she's married) and Maxwell have made me fall in love on several occasions. Again, I am controlled by the music I listen to, and these songs have led to several fantasies and day dreams which I must admit, I enjoy immensely.
Despite my loyalty to the above mentioned artists, there is a song in particular which carries me far away, to a place which I call my own. This place about which I write is my happy place, and this song is not written, composed or sung by the aforementioned musicians. I'd like to think we all have a happy place. It is there we go when our physical being is in a situation where it is least comfortable, or sometimes when our minds are at their most vulnerable. Our respective happy places are where we want to be at all times, where no one and nothing can hope to annoy, harm or aggravate us. We feel not only safe, but exceedingly happy there. Sometimes, it can be a place where we've been before, other times, it is our utopia. It is where we achieve nirvana upon ecstasy. What carries me to this place is Micheal Buble's Me and Mrs Jones, and tonight, I feel the urge to share my dream with you all. Please take note, NO ONE is allowed to be here but me. I love you all, but there's a reason why it is MY happy place.
To no one's surprise, its a bar, but not just any bar. Its is the ultimate bar. For some strange reason, its embossed in dark red lighting. The leather couches are dark red as well, so are the walls. It is not blood red or anything so macabre, its more of a burgundy color. The bar itself is as most of its kind go, all varieties of alchohol decorating its shelves, with a bartender dressed in a white shirt, black bow tie and black waist coat, ready to tend to anybody's needs.
The unique thing however, is that there's is only one person in the whole room. Me. I'm sitting at the bar, wearing the darkest, blackest, most expensive suit imaginable. Sipping on the finest, most expensive cognac known to man, smoking the most exquisite cigarettes. Though my jacket is still on, I've loosened my tie down more than a few inches. The bar keep does not leave my front, his sole purpose, as always, is to make sure my glass is never empty, I never need to ask for a light. I know this may come across as selfish, but really, as I said before, this is MY happy place. The presence of anyone else would ruin the beauty of it completely. Some might think there should be company alongside me. Maybe a beautiful woman or five, maybe a few of my closest compatriots, hell, maybe even the board of advisors I keep so close to me. But I do not want or need any of these people around right now. I need to indulge in me. Women, though always a welcome distraction, would prove to be just that, a distraction. And as for my brethren, well they would just question as to the lack of the fairer sex, and dub this glorious place a sausage factory.
Lord knows what I'm meditating on, what reminisance is occupying my mind at this time, but the entire ambiance is perfect. Of course, this place wouldn't exist if not for Mr Micheal Buble, and true to form, he's right there on stage, performing Me and Mrs Jones, solely for my pleasure. He hits a particular note in the song, one which I cannot honestly explain to you good people who haven't heard it, but it gives me a feeling. This feeling is inexplicable as well. Its a combination of awe, sadness, regret, desire, futility, joy and appreciation. It makes me smile and cry all at once, shake my head in both amazement and longing. I wish I was an architect, or could afford to hire one, I would create this place. I'm not sure yet if anyone else would still be allowed into it, or I would make it strictly for my pleasure. Once again, I have no idea why I'm here, how I got here, or where this place even is. All I do know is that this is a beautiful place to me. This is where I feel fulfilled. I want this place to exist. I want to come here every night and meditate, contemplate and revel in the being that is Womilee.
I encourage everyone to find a happy place. It truly is a saving grace in bad times, in good times, its a place to go celebrate. It does not have to be inspired by music as mine is. It could stem from an experience, a thought or a word. Please whoever you are, wherever you are, right now search and discover your happy place. Spend a little time there, see how you feel afterwards. I guarantee you'll have that feeling I described afterwards.
Thank you all for your time.
One more thing, I just realized that I didn't curse once in this write up. Maybe I'm maturing....
That thought frightens me beyond conceivable rationality, so, just for the sake of it....
Fuck it, I am Womilee...

Monday, 28 February 2011

28/02/2011

I find now that rather than write something vulgar or humorous, I tend not to be able to write unless the subject matter is one which affects me directly.... or to be disgustingly honest, emotionally.
This morning, it suddenly occurred to me that I've just reached the end of a particular sequence all of us have gone through before (and still will go through). This one will shock those who know me...
There are 4 stages in a break-up. I hereby classify them as Anger, Despair, Loneliness and Recognition. Let me explain....
Yes, there was a girl. Yes, I am capable of feeling for something other than myself. Yes, this is Womilee. No, I'm not on my period. I was simply put in a position I'm not accustomed to. Cut the long story short, I was her rebound guy, and I didn't realize it till it was over. Now that the sob story is done, the tissues have stopped being passed around, I'd like to enlighten you all on the stages which I mentioned. This way, next time your heart gets used as a shoe rag, at least you'll know what the fuck exactly you're going through.
ANGER: this is my favourite stage. Here, you're so gangsta, 50 Cent aint got nothing on you. The theme music playing in your head is a combination of B.M.F and You Don't Have To Call. Here, its all fuck this, and fuck that, and fuck her and her momma too! Anyone who did that shit to you is fucked up anyway, and you don't need no fucked up people around you. Matter of fact, fuck that bitch! This my friend is what is known as lying to your goddamn self.... Its also the prelude to stage 2
DESPAIR: your imaginary posse has left. The gangsta rap in the background has faded away, and has been replaced Tracy Chapman's suicidal guitar strummings. You've gone on an impressive fucking spree, peeked up every single skirt in a 10 mile radius. And even when you've consumed more booze in a week than you did the whole of last year, all you can think is 'so she's not gonna call?' You haven't stopped lying to yourself here though. You deleted her details from your phone, but lets be real fool, you know her number by heart. You could make an oscar-award winning, full length motion picture with those digits. But still, she could call. Just to say hi. You're leaning towards the 3rd and most painful stage.....
LONELINESS: you know what they say about the shit hitting the fan? Well this stage is exactly what they're talking about. It is torture. Ur liver has finally failed you, and so has your dick. You simply cannot or do not want to fuck anyone anymore. All you want to do is call her. You want to hear her laugh, or say that word she says in a weird way or tease her about that strange lil thing she does sometimes. You drive by that place that the two of you used to go have chips, wondering if she's inside with someone else. Every single car that remotely resembles hers automatically becomes an object of extreme interest to you. And God help you if you smell that scent she likes nearby, your ass is toast for the next couple of days.
You keep staring at your phone, hoping that by some fluke of nature, she'll call. But the annoying bastard in your head called reality tells you to stop wasting your time. You acted like a jackass when it ended, and you're gonna pay for it.
I hate to tell you good people this honest truth, but stage 3 sometimes may not end. You might wallow in misery and self pity for little while and then move on.... Or you may just continue the rest of your days as the saddest muthafucker to lose something since ... What's the name of that woman who contested the PDP primaries again? Anyways, if you're lucky (and I pray you are...), you'll move one to the fourth and final stage....
RECOGNITION: finally! At last! You've seen the light! It took fucking forever, but you now understand what actually happened. Fuck who's fault it was (even though it still is that bitch's fault), but dammit, life's too short. You can let it go now. Suddenly, your balls reappear in your trousers. You can stand to hear her voice or see her or even have a cordial conversation with her.
Yes, she took your feelings and traded them on the stock exchange, but you know... Shit happens. You're no saint yourself my friend. Give her a shout, see how she's doing. And then, when you've made contact, and you realise that its all good now, your libido awakens with a vengance and it occurs to you that cos of this bitch, you aint gotten nookie in a bit. And when you realise this shit ...
Excuse me gentlefolk, I gotta go get me some ...
... Btw, I'm Womilee ...