Sometimes...Behind ME

Time to wear the mask.


Put on that smile.


Make it seem that everything’s alright.


Coz all’s not lost.


….Not yet.


So off I go.. to the world, my stage.








Sometimes I pretend to be strong and smile though my heart pains.


Sometimes I pretend to be weak and allow the world to do me favours.


Sometimes I pretend to be smart and read and think and imagine and create.


Sometimes I pretend to be stupid. These are the days I love wearing my Fasttrack glares.


Sometimes I pretend to be intelligent but I can’t understand.


Sometimes I pretend to be blonde but it’s only peroxide.


Sometimes I pretend to be fully aware of where I’m going but I’m hopelessly lost.


Sometimes I pretend to be lost but I hold His lamp that lights my path in my hands.


Sometimes I pretend to be confident, but I know that I don’t know.


Sometimes I pretend to be unaware, but I know that I know.


Sometimes I pretend to be happy, even though…


Sometimes I pretend to be sad - and am constantly amazed at the love God and my family show me.


Sometimes I pretend to be entertained, though like Solomon, I feel everything is a vanity of vanities.


Sometimes I pretend to be pious, though I wish for vanity of vanities.


Sometimes I pretend to be a writer, I play with words until like a jigsaw puzzle I know what fits where.


Sometimes I pretend to be a reader, all the while trying to stop my mind from racing ahead to figure out where it’s going.


Sometimes I pretend to be a cook. Very rare times indeed, but it does happen.


Sometimes I pretend to be a connoisseur of food. But I have a small appetite, I have no sense of smell and my taste is sub-standard.


Sometimes I pretend to be bindaas. Sorry, it’s almost 3 am, I can’t think of the English word for bindaas; and who really cares?


Sometimes I pretend to be good. Though only God and I know the utter depraved extent of my unholiness.


Sometimes I pretend to be bad. I do a decent enough job at it, but I run home to God everytime. My hiding place.


Sometimes I pretend to be a narcissistic, but I don’t love the way I look at all.


Sometimes I pretend to be self-deprecating but I can’t stop taking pictures of my self with my phonecam (read posing also).


Sometimes I pretend to be loving, but I still struggle with altruistic love, forgiveness and surrender.


Sometimes I pretend to be hard. But I can’t help loving.


Sometimes I pretend to be happy with my work. And then I realise I’m not.


Sometimes I pretend to be sad with my work. Then I’m surprised how much I’m really grateful for it.


Sometimes I pretend to be complaining, all the while giving thanks in my heart.


Sometimes I pretend to be giving thanks, all the while complaining in my heart.


Sometimes I pretend to be ambitious. But all I want is to be happy and love all those around me.


Sometimes I pretend to be simple. But I really want to be remembered forever by everyone.


Sometimes I pretend to be fashionable, when all I want is to wear my old navy blue salwar.


Sometimes I pretend to be not fashion-conscious but I check trends and I change outfits for hours before going out.


Sometimes I pretend to be very family oriented though in my mind I want to be out with my friends.


Sometimes I pretend to be without attachment. Though I know my God and my family are my backbone, my support, my stronghold.


Sometimes I pretend to be able to give everything up. But I know how weak I actually am.


Sometimes I pretend to be weak. Then I realise in Him I have everything and I need nothing more.


Sometimes I pretend to be here, but I’m not, I don’t want to be anymore.


Sometimes I pretend to be at work, but I’m here at my blog, wondering if I have new comments!


Sometimes I pretend to be happy with what I write but I know its mostly plain crap.


Sometimes I pretend to be on a higher literary level but I’m quite pleased even with my most inane blog posts.


Sometimes I pretend to be blogging because it’s my creative outlet but I constantly monitor my feeds and my hits and I smile.


Sometimes I pretend to be tech saavy about the net, but all I want to do really is just write.


Sometimes I pretend to be worldly and secular. But I remember Him always.


Sometimes I pretend to be like someone else but I know I’m myself.


Sometimes I pretend to be individualistic. But I know I’m just copying so many people.


Sometimes I pretend to be sleepy but I’m like an insomniac.


Sometimes I pretend to be awake but I’m day dreaming.


Sometimes I pretend to be planning but I’m going with the flow.


Sometimes I pretend to be going with the flow but I’m a obsessive control freak.


Sometimes I pretend to be in the present but I reminisce and I wonder.


Sometimes I pretend to be fore-sighted but I’m living in the moment, trying hard not to think.


Sometimes I pretend to be brave but I wonder what people would think about me.


Sometimes I pretend to be interested in other’s opinions of me but it doesn’t really matter.


Sometimes I pretend to be neutral but I realise it’s love.


Sometimes I pretend to be in love but I realise it’s not something that can happen as often as I’d like.


Sometimes I pretend it’s real, but I’m pretending.


Sometimes I pretend I’m pretending, but it’s real.


Sometimes I stop pretending, these are the times I am realise the depth of true love.


These are the times I realise, everything else is but a pretense.


But it’s late, I’ll go to sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll get up and start pretending again.

My words...

I’m like the inchworm that climbs to the tip of a blade of grass, and then waves about in a panic, near to losing its fragile hold, tiny head seeking the next blade of grass. That’s me, wailing and waving about, clinging to my blade of grass, all the while I’m in a sea of grass, and soon enough my tiny head bumps into one, thus it goes with the writing of latest post in blog, I’m at para 2, clinging, frantic, and blind.


Where are my words? Why aren’t they golden? Silver? Brass? Why are they clay? But clay can be shaped, baked, glazed and painted. Clay can have strength and symmetry and tell a story as subtle as light. I know that certain posts require several rewrites. I can feel it in the voiceless words that are not good enough, in the words that ought to be said, the words that wait to be written, but are still lost in the silence of thought.


I like to get the words right the first time. In selecting words to create narrative,”…every word is on trial for its life.” to quote again. I always think of the words I’m writing when I’m writing, of choosing the right word to convey what I want to say, what the story demands. That demand may not always be obvious at the beginning, but as I read it over and over, I see…something, and the thinking and the selecting begins afresh. I cannot write without paying close attention to the words from the moment the first letter of the first word appears at the first tap on the key.


So the brain yelled at me this morning. Get back to the writing instead of so much thinking! Enough with the thinking! The thinking is fine; the writing’s how you get the post done! So write already!
Sheesh!


My theme occurred to me as I scribbled the last of the thinking: Life is uncertain and you must give it the best meaning you can.


The brain is giggling in anticipation.

The LADY

Plumes of smoke twisted around her long manicured fingersnails making spirals in the frosty air. She looked like most Party people on any given day and especially on Valentines evening - shrouded in black. The modern belle had severely straight, dyed black hair, Black turtle neck, tight short black skirt, black pantyhose and tall black stiletto boots. Leaning against a hotel wall, she spoke to a man who seemed more interested in her than she did in him. She looked out into the night and took a drag on her cigarette. “I taught my girls to drink scotch!” She proudly proclaimed flicking ashes onto the sidewalk.


As I passed by, I imagined her instructing her ‘girls’. “Now, girls, sophisticated woman only drink scotch! It’s a taste you must acquire!”


In what situation would she be telling her girls to drink scotch? What girls? It made me wonder, as I tried to invent situations where this phrase might fit. Might be a good start to a short story;