Creative response to Elijah's life

LIberate me God. I am tired and weary and have no love left to give, no joy left to give and I don't know what sins to forgive.
I'm alone, naked in the dark and I want to die. I thought you called me, didn't you call me, can this really be a calling; to give my all and then be despised, hunted, cannibalised?
They all took me and with their teeth of hatred and jealousy tore chunks of my flesh. I am Shylock's debtor, Hannibal's meal, Christ's cup and you spat me out.

I have nothing left.
But precious death. Let me go.
Please.

Chuck, Neo, Willow, Joss

Living in the world of Chuck, Neo, Willow, Joss.
Shot in the head.

Understanding.

Sharing the world.
Abuse, sex, judgement.

Praying.

Saying No.

Saying goodbye.

Seeing death.

Being disappointed.

Afraid of the dark.
Condemning the world.

Giving up.

Lying to my face.

In the matrix.

Light at the end of the falling abyss?
Here's hoping.

All this discussion makes me realise that through my reflections I have so little certainty about anything, any of who I am and how and why I am who I am. Yet I quite clearly want those answers.
So I realise I am at an impasse and I wonder why, as someone so concerned with knowing who I am, I find it so difficult to answer that question with certitude?

If I knew the answer to that, the question wouldn’t need answering.

How Long?

These aren't the songs I want to sing
About faith and peace and hope.
Cos everything will not be fine
It's in the dark we grope.

Cry out to the Lord, I heard them say
But I did that all before.
And all I heard was my desperate voice
And a throat that's become so sore.

I shed the tears, I prayed the prayers
And still nothing has changed.
How can a God that loves us so
Leave this world, this way deranged?

It's different for me who had a chance,
Who knows what it's like to have grace
But I know these orphans who got nothing in life
And they're still kicked around the place.

What does it matter if salvation comes
In a life after we don't care?
Who cares if the Lamb of God stands out,
Who cares if the Christ is there?

The don't think of the end or the heavenly realm
They surviving from day to day
Some don't get the chance to survive the day,
There's always a price to pay.

I'm sick of rejoicing, I'm sick of asking
I'm sick of being brought to my knees
And I'm not even the one who is hurting
It's not my pain I grieve.

How long, Oh Lord, will you make us wait?
How long will we speak out in vain?
How long will you sit back with idle hands
Watch your children writhe in pain?

Are you really Yahweh, a God who saves?
Do you even hear their cry?
I can hear deafening in my ears
You don't answer, I don't know why?

Our name is Israel yes? you called us Israel?
We're a people who struggle with God.
But aren't we s'pose to overcome, after all is done.
Don't you save us from the coming flood?

I don't know what to say, how to make you hear
That heaven after is not enough.
You can't give them more, the world it tears apart
This life is cruel and harse and tough.

All I have left is a plea, a beggar on my knees,
That somehow you will wipe out the dirt.
That in my disbelief your light will blast away
Everything that caused them hurt.

Please.

Really like the way

Do you really like the way my scarf hung round my neck?
Cos I thought it was just the sound of your own voice
that was draped in the space between us.

Did you really feel the way we connect?
Cos I thought it was just the sparks as my Ipod crackled intermingled with my sweat.

Did you really like the pale of my lips?
Cos you know that's not real right, it's just Maybelline or Revlon or some other shit.

Do you really want me, to want you to want me to want you?
I couldn't remember the rest, I was too distracted by my own revulsion/attraction.

Does it normally work?
Cos even though they'll all tell you it doesn't
It does.

As long as you don't mind that I want you to want me to want you.

And that's it.

four and twenty

I'm 24. Four and twenty.
Stories in my head, I have plenty.
I. Just. Can't. Tell. Them.

Not cos I don't want to.
I. Just.Can't. Get the. Words.
Out.

I'm not shy, I'm not fly, I don't cry.
I'm not 24.

I've got less years than that.
You'll see less me than that.

You wanna see my hair?
It's shiny underneath
wavy underneath
There's no grey there underneath.

You wanna see my neck?
It's so smooth underneath
So cool underneath
There's no rules there underneath.

You wanna see my kneecaps?
It's so scarred underneath
So marred underneath
There's no covers underneath.

You won't see my neck, or my my hair, do you care? It's not fair.
You won't see my knees, no one sees, I'm not a tease.

You won't see my elbows,My shoulder, My chin, My forehead, my buttcheek, my armpit, my shin. My thigh, my hip, my pelvis, my chest, the small of my back and the curve of my breast.

You won't see my beauty, my pleasure, my shame, my shadows, my silhouette, mu childish game. My giggle, my fighting, my fears and my sigh, my groans, my bruises, not even my lie.

Oh sorry.
You will see that.
The lie. In my eye.
You will see that.

touching the veil

The only way to ever feel alive is when you are touching the veil. Otherwise it feels like being in a waking coma. You cut your hair, you meet your friends, you eat your meals and you start to smoke, because it seems the idea of cancer and death is so far away that it really doesn’t matter. And even if it came up right and stared you in the face, you wonder what the difference would be between alive and dead. What are you when you are dead? You don’t breathe, feel, think, love, connect. And you think to yourself, same difference. But then you realise. There is a difference. By the simple fact of wondering if there is a difference, therein lies the difference. But you realise you think you might prefer dead. At least when you are dead you don’t realise you are dead. Being dead alive and knowing it. That’s worse.

And you wonder, you didn’t always feel this way. And its not like anything has changed. No trauma, death, sorrow or pain. Those things make you feel. Alive.

But here you realise, in this robotic death, that the only time you ever feel alive is when you are touching the veil.

The veil of truth. You know you can never, in this life, go through the veil. You will always be on this side of truth. But maybe, maybe just brushing the silk veil will give you something. Truth lies on the other side. It has always been on the other side and you know it always will be on the other side. But you realise, sometimes, if you stretch, reach, force your dead mind to reach for something it knows is good but it doesn’t really want or care, sometimes, if you reach, you don’t even have to grab, you know that would be too much for your poor excuse for a being, that if the fingertips could just brush the waves of the silk veil of truth, you would be jolted. Alive.

Like cutting into your flesh so deeply that the nerve is exposed. And touching, with your finger tip the bare, raw exposed nerve. It is agonising. But you can feel it. And suddenly you are alive. Just the slightest contact and your whole body is writhing with wakefulness.

That’s all. Touching the veil.

Need I say more?

Some people don't need self promotion.

former child soldier
lost all family in the war
rehabilitated
degree from USA
written a book
Met with Kofi Annan & Bill Clinton to discuss the plight of child soldiers.
Addressed the UN General Assembly

The most impressive person I have met. Possibly ever.

The art of Self Promotion: ugly or creative?

I am here surrounded by people who are 'the cream of the crop'. They are the success stories of their families, the 4.0 GPAs and the honours students. But I sit here asking myself, is this really true? It is not because they are incompetent, far from it. I am intimdated by their efficiency, their aptitude and their clear genius. Or is it rather that I am intimidated by their uninhibited willingness to share this with me? Surely someone who is so forthcoming in tellng me how 'brilliant' they are, how well travelled, experienced and wise they are must be certain of their ability?

The concept of self-promotion is not something I come across everyday, and yet here it seems to be a necessity. I wonder if it is my English reserve that makes me think it is such an unattractive thing to have to 'blow your own trumpet' or if it genuinely is ugly. It's not as if the English are not proud beings, I realise that I probably assume I am brilliant, wise and well-travelled and that rather than modesty it is an assumption that everyone clearly knows this that causes me to refrain from comment.
I know it is also my fear that if I raise expectations then I am bound to disappoint, where if I keep quiet I can only delight people with my 'understated' brilliance! And thus I start to question if my way is better after all.

I have to admit it is not simply that I consider self-promtion to be so ugly that I am irritated by this prevalent character trait. Honesty compels me to acknowledge that what really gets my goat is that people- not as brilliant as me - are portrayed as such.

I recently went to a conference, and out of not only English reserve but also a sense of inadequacy I fear I misrepresented myself. I implied a level of ignorance about Human Rights and the rest of the world which wasn't fair to myself. I then spent the rest of the week answering the inquiry of whether coming to the USA was my first time out of England. I know I am not the most global citizen, but my parents live in Burundi and my sister lives in Afghanistan, so I do have some sense of what it is to be 'overseas'. I shot myself in the foot and spent the rest of week feeling as if I had been labelled 'the silly white colonialist who has a good heart'.

So I ask myself, should I buy into this self-promotion game? Should I vocalise my skills and be a walking talking resume, where any experience is maximised and exaggerated? It seems to be an important feature to the climbing the career ladder, and I can see why.

I still think its ugly though.