I must admit it has been awhile since I wrote a letter. But today, in the stillness of time I feel I should write this to you, life. I love the feeling that I will be writing to you. Talking to you, probably, unraveling the mysteries of my being. The mysteries hidden from you although you live within me and you are me, or still you make me be.
These secretes I will reveal to you, have been hidden from the world. Hidden from those who treasure the illusion of knowing me, those who imagine that at the snap of their fingers, they can predict when I will laugh and cry, when I nitpick or act, those who have treasured a bond with my being, who imagine the fibers of my existence are in sync with their expectations.
As such, it will be a betrayal, but also a revelation. Within me, it tingles to imagine my being will bare itself. Life, the tragedy of writing is its permanency, I would have loved this to be hidden in the secluded knowledge of our twofold, but I am sure someone else would read this, and my being will be construed by other people; who will never dare talk to you, who may never know that you can hear, or read or smile at the ideals that are secluded in my depths.
I fear that construction, where men with nonchalance say I erred without looking at my efforts, or glorify my niceties without looking at my intent. I fear, the ignorance of men, those who praise my being without understanding it, And as I reveal myself to you, they will come hearts open, but some of their hearts open into nothing, the nothingness that make their subjectivity. They will rank my being on the scales of their idiosyncrasies, fears and morality; never endeavoring to understand the weaves of by being. They will see my acts, joy, and happiness as they are not as I am. Probably think I cried when tales of watery liquids seeping off my eyes are told; probably think I laughed when captions of my smiling self are displayed. They have done this over ages, but I, I will bare my being, but still they will be unable to free themselves from themselves, and they will criticize it, write on it, and probably make careers out of it. Yet they have never been brave to see me as me.
Well life, in my depths, I am but one thing. Me. Why should I be me in my depths you will ask, it’s because of you life, you are accustomed to tradition; where the being of the masses is interwoven by dependencies. If I were to bring myself out of the depths of my being, your agents will castigate me; I could be called a savage, uncivilized or uncircumcised in the manner of my being.
I have therefore retreated into the pretences of time multiple of times, to belong, to be wanted, to want, to need and to be needed, to be seen efficient by the scales of others. I have retreated into the expectations of existence, where I am curtailed. Yet this curtailment I endure with knowledgeable restraint. My being is knowledgeable of the need to retreat into these pretences.
Pretences that make me able to walk on streets. And fit in the jigsaw of existence, where I may not have curved my space, but I have been squeezed into the solidness of what is you, life, by tradition and streams of tomorrow.
Well in me, I shade tears in the silences of self. I never allow the weight of time to pile pressures of perpetuity in me because of being a man. Yet still, the world has never seen those tears, not even the walls of my caging, not even the underneath of my beddings. Yet countless times I release the steams of existence, the pilings, the anxieties, the fears and worries of time by free flows within.
I have looked at the heat and failed to sweat, even though the body of myself may pour watery things, my being has been calm. In the construction of my being, the world has said I sweat, yet to me I sweat when in calm. I fear abundance because it breeds satisfaction, and satisfaction breeds stagnation. The fires within me ignite by instant, I burn to move, to discover, I have moved every time of my being; again a mystery that was hidden to you. I know life; your maze appears multiple of times to cage me.
I have been in physical restraint, distance has secluded me from reaching classes, but it has failed to make me stop learning. Again then, this restraint, could be hot in the eyes of the world, it could make me, not me, the body in which I am sweat, and in its ignorance, the around me will construe me as a man who sweats in the heat, they have never known that I learn, I move by moment.
I remember the number of times when I look in awe at the around. It looks at me, yet it only sees my shadow, yet I know it, not so much, I know it as not knowing me, I see it as it is. Probably that is why I am writing this letter.
Even though I am writing to you life, with a hope that this would remain in the secrecy of our twofold, I know with certainty that it shall not. I seemingly cherish this thought; In fact it secretly motivates the writing and the openness. I am reaching out to the solid of existence, extending a chance of existence to understand the falsity of its assumptions.
I hope, for I am not dead, that when I am heard, I could be allowed to chip the space of my part in it; that I will not be forced into the solid of existence. I wish we shared this eye, me and them. That the jigsaw fit of existence should not be predetermined by the today and streams of tomorrow.
Life, I should explain to you this phrase “streams of tomorrow”. There is always something about streams, they start from sources, if you are at the source; you have no stream. You only see a stream beyond the source less the end. And that is my fear, that my hopes are expected to follow the drift, the drift whose source I know little about, and the future that is a myriad. All I know is that the drift goes on; that I will meet torrents and that an end is inevitable.
I am supposed to be imprisoned by tradition, probably follow paths that have been beaten for me. When I consider deviation I will be a dissident, may be a deviant, but I wonder, how will substance accrue to being if I trail tradition, I think in my naivety that a drift from this stream would lead to discovery; discovery of the mysteries unknown, just like the fiber of my being.
I need you to understand me, I do not believe that I should deviate from my obligation to collective existence, but what does my around owe me. It owes me a respect of my unhindered potential, a right of choice, a choice that I may look at the past and respect it, or choose to forge into the unknown with the hopes of my courage.
Well, this gives you a glimpse into my being, a revelation of my fears. I wrote to you; Life, hoping you would allow a recreation of the solid of existence. So that it I am not forced into it, but that my distinction coalesces with the around to create existence; that my being be unhindered. Is this a wish, no.
Is it a claim yes; to you life. Why would I want it to remain in our twofold, our secrecy. I actually don’t know, but I told you a wish lingered in the far that it be known.
Time has stolen my stillness, there is music in a far, I don’t want to be indoctrinated by the fears espoused in it. It is a prayer, and mine too is a prayer.
One who is.
“The writer is The Executive Secretary League Of Kenyan Youth”