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MOUNTAINS
A piece about beauty, about stability and strength.
I sometimes look at the mountains and quiver with awe, with desire and wonder. Nothing looks as solid, and stands as resolute as a mountain,
I guess sometimes I check them out.
Like a man when courting a woman for the first time, or like a woman blushing in the presence of her lover. I study them : every curve, every top and width and height and breath and shape, and layout, every place of attraction. I learn it all. Going on it up and down, and under with my eyes, from every angle and from every direction.
I always look at the mountains and think : But God created a masterpiece here. No doubt! As a result I stare at them, lovingly in absolute admiration. I swear the day I find myself a man he better look at me the same way I look at the mountains, and I promise I'd fall in love with him daily, just because.
Nonetheless, this piece is not about my love life, this piece is rather about mountains and how I sometimes look up to them and start asking questions as if talking to a friend : This is a habit that dates back to my childhood days. When I use to climb mountains in search for lost sheeps.
Sometimes we climbed them for fun, sometimes for adventures, other times for delicacies, for wood, for cow dug, sometimes we climbed them for solitude, for prayers, for hunting and other times for feeding "abakhwetha" the boys in the initiation schools.
The mountains become my favorite place. They became a close friend that I confided all my secrets to: my first sins, my worst fears, crushes, my confusions, my nightmares and frustrations. "Unomqolo" knew even my tears. That was a mountain closest to my home.
In my village, mountains stand close by, circling us all around. In them I left trails of my feet, always searching for something about my strength and other times something about my purpose, and everytime something about the truest meaning of what beauty is. These mountains were never far enough nor did they hid from my questions about life. About myself, about them.
"What makes you stand strong?" Sometimes I'd ask them this question angrily, whenever I felt like my life was falling apart. I'd ask them everytime life would play it's crual tricks on me:
"HEY I AM TALKING TO YOU HERE : WHAT MAKES YOU STAND?"
I would sometimes say this in a dying voice that was almost fading out, choked out by...
I sometimes look at the mountains and quiver with awe, with desire and wonder. Nothing looks as solid, and stands as resolute as a mountain,
I guess sometimes I check them out.
Like a man when courting a woman for the first time, or like a woman blushing in the presence of her lover. I study them : every curve, every top and width and height and breath and shape, and layout, every place of attraction. I learn it all. Going on it up and down, and under with my eyes, from every angle and from every direction.
I always look at the mountains and think : But God created a masterpiece here. No doubt! As a result I stare at them, lovingly in absolute admiration. I swear the day I find myself a man he better look at me the same way I look at the mountains, and I promise I'd fall in love with him daily, just because.
Nonetheless, this piece is not about my love life, this piece is rather about mountains and how I sometimes look up to them and start asking questions as if talking to a friend : This is a habit that dates back to my childhood days. When I use to climb mountains in search for lost sheeps.
Sometimes we climbed them for fun, sometimes for adventures, other times for delicacies, for wood, for cow dug, sometimes we climbed them for solitude, for prayers, for hunting and other times for feeding "abakhwetha" the boys in the initiation schools.
The mountains become my favorite place. They became a close friend that I confided all my secrets to: my first sins, my worst fears, crushes, my confusions, my nightmares and frustrations. "Unomqolo" knew even my tears. That was a mountain closest to my home.
In my village, mountains stand close by, circling us all around. In them I left trails of my feet, always searching for something about my strength and other times something about my purpose, and everytime something about the truest meaning of what beauty is. These mountains were never far enough nor did they hid from my questions about life. About myself, about them.
"What makes you stand strong?" Sometimes I'd ask them this question angrily, whenever I felt like my life was falling apart. I'd ask them everytime life would play it's crual tricks on me:
"HEY I AM TALKING TO YOU HERE : WHAT MAKES YOU STAND?"
I would sometimes say this in a dying voice that was almost fading out, choked out by...
