In her other conscience, her relationships had been like miscarriages. . . she put her body, soul and mind into them, but they failed her and died. . .the last one had not surprised her when it came, she only cried once, . . .then suffered her pain silently. . . when they led her to the arid plateau, that open, dry desert, she had not cried like the others did. . . she had welcomed it, the desert expected nothing from her, and took nothing from her that she had not already lost. She silently moved about, and created a life for herself within that everlasting drought. . . made some little light for herself. . .she created her own personal oasis. She shares her light. . .but never much or little. . . she does not begrudge, but she does not also freely give. . . this is her balance

There is a secret meanness in her nature, deep down she is not kind, the need to maintain balance around her can at times hide situations that call for kindness and empathy from her. . . it gets a bit dangerous when she believes that she is righteous. . . it makes her companions thankful that she is of little consequence in their community. It gets dangerous . . .that attitude.

Her face looked calm, the depth of the pool of her eyes gentle, she can come of as placid to some, somber to some, a snob to most, yet the keenest of eyes, can see that her under eye sinks deeper everyday. The smiles are shy, never eager, never bright, but always present. . .a sheen of optimism glowers under her skin. . .embers of a dying sun, glimmering but never dazzling.

Today is bright, the sun is at its zenith, she is afraid of dusk, the depth of that fiery purple is intense, it pulls her soul to it, that age old powerful pull towards beauty, yet. . . she knows not to give in to the pull, for that bold fiery light will disappear suddenly, and darkness will set in, with despair in its wake. She is never sure she has the strength to survive till daybreak, so she lingers in the periphery of dusk, close enough to see it, close enough to greedily take it in with her eyes, but still on the edge, . . . never fully embracing the beauty, in a kind of purgatory. . . neither in the brilliance of heaven nor the deep, dark, despair of hell.

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There she stays, within the bounds of deluded security, not quite living, watching. . . those who burn in loss and those who live, luminescent and alive, she never attempts to engage that bottomless pit of emotion, that is her soul.

Dawn is here, . . .another morning. . .”that wasn’t so long, maybe I can stay alive till dawn. . .” The bright morning shines a light on the carnage. Before her are the anguished, lifeless faces of the dead, they died heartbroken, forsaken in the darkness. . .left by Dusk. . .dusk of the purple lustre.

Yet there are those that survived, after their agonized screams through the night. She sees the angels, those that dusk will wed. They who stood resilient and have been embraced by dusk. How radiant, luminescent, incandescent bodies of power, elegance and grace. Their joy blazes into purgatory, my current home. They represent the hope that pushes me to the edge of purgatory every evening, to witness the allure of dusk, that seductive reddish purple, begin its magic.

image downloaded from a pinterest account

Today I take a step closer, drawn in like a moth to a flame, I take another step, then another. . . this triggers alarm in my fellow purgatory dwellers, we are among the few that have eluded that maddening snare of dusk,

. . .then another. . .they start to scream, shouting out my name, calling on me to stop, I’m walking too close they say, I will die they say, . . . yet another step, their screams are shrilly now, embodying the extreme, maybe irrational panic and fear, . . .that I should also be feeling . . .yet. . .is this what sailors felt in the presence of the sirens call, . . .the allure, the beauty, the joy, every nerve ending in my body is tingling, the intensity washes over me, stringing me up so high I am sure I’m drooling from the sides of my mouth, the potency of feeling is like I have never experienced, I am living and dying at the same time. . .

What have I done. . .,

‘Dusk never lasts long’. . . this thought echo’s the beginning of true darkness. The icy fingers of darkness are a death grip on my shoulder, the despair sets in slowly, it increases in potency. The loss and the cold . . .not the pain drop me to my knees. . . I thought it would be the pain. The courtyard which once entertained the splendor of dusk is now empty. . . there are cries of agony, I am silent, trapped,. . .I’m folded into a fetal position, I hum silently, as pain vibrates through my body. . .I resist the urge to close my eyes, as I pray and wait on dawn.

Image downloaded from a pinterest account

By Ruth Mgendi

I have an appreciation for words, the power words have to uplift, build, create, without words we would not be able to convey intent or meaning to each other.

I am also a legal researcher, lover of comics, art, color, stories, adventure and beauty. Above all I appreciate and respect life, the body, the mind and the soul.
I seek a higher connectivity and understanding of the co-existence between these three parts of life and hope to share this journey with any other learner.
I hope this forum will be interactive, positive and above all I hope it adds value in some way to those that read and interact.

Hope Nyambura is my attempt at a pen name, so. . . indulge my pink and golden bubble :-)

Thank you!

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