It is as if they have consciously built a cinema that incessantly plays one movie that reinforces its walls and rids us of the nuances that illumine us.
Their eyes carry heavy residues from dust clouds breathed to life by the lies they speak to keep the monotonous reality alive. Their eyes blinded by this weight, they walk and stumble in their life journeys and attack each other with foreign phrases, foreign beliefs, and foreign identities for protection while those that hold the bricks of building communities sit and clap, entertained by all this. And the children have found fun ways to deal with the pain. They have found a way of dipping their tongues into bottles that scream to be emptied, and with those tongues they paint over their paintings of dreams so as to forget them.
See, being from a small town such as Parys and an unknown township called Tumahole, one sees how a reality is created and how it’s fed constantly so it can sing a mantra that deafens the ethereal whispers of dreams. One observes how crowds gather on Saturday mornings with tears playing hide and seek with the childish winds of sorrow, hiding behind eyelids while another is being buried; metallic shovels sending flights of red soil into holes to blanket expensive caskets. And on Saturday nights with eyes tired from grappling with tears the same crowds gather and with hands bruised by the unfeeling metallic shovels pick up glass shovels and send numbing rains of distilled liquids to bury their dreams that lie in reinforced caskets of fear.
Still the created reality sings its mantra: ‘ride the waves of conformity or drown in the endless ocean of self’. Seduced by the fragrances of the unknown I drown, with a still mind, a heart enchanted by the magic of love, and an imagination fueled by the creative energy that binds all.
It is sad to watch politicians and social "servants'' loot the society of its money, but it is death to watch them loot the society of its dreams and imagination.
Son of forgotten gods.
bra im humbled by tha work . and i do think imaginations is the onlything we got to use to show wat the world should be....
ReplyDeletenamaste
lee mac
ReplyDeleteThey used to gather as rays circulating the sun, around grandma' at the fire place in the evening of day and night...she spoke fictitious realities of what was and still to be, she told stories...Their curiosity painted the motion pictures with dry strokes of her words, her sound effects elucidated their individual images...Now I know why were the stories told...
ReplyDeleteThis day they press their last joy into modern sticks and rejoice the scoring of goals...which was predetermined and allowed to happen by the programmer dude...they play FIFA and NEED FOR SPEED before the sleep.
Grandma's stories was to broaden their imagination, allow their minds to stretch and steal photos out of a moving sound.
Imagination is gradually evaporating towards the unobserved skies of oblivion...
KEA LEBOHA MORENA RANTO.
WA TSENA
KAGISO
I am humbled by your responses, and yes I strongly feel that the imagination that once resonated in all that we touched is key to our rebirth.
ReplyDeleteWe have to remember how to create and find our connection with the creative energy that lives through all. I hope this blog and many of my work will impart this very stance and I hope many such as yourselves shall explore these workings.
Son of forgotten gods.