The night in monotones...

Dawn approaches. My hands are placed firmly over my eyelids, fruitlessly bent on locking out the millions of searching shafts of the rising sun that will soon violently invade the haven of my room through the open window. If I cannot see them, perhaps they do not exist.

Perhaps I can coax the blissful night to keep her dark blanket around this exquisite gloom. Perhaps I can forever break the timeless rota of the loathsome Sun never relenting in making a grandiose entry at my stillest, most tranquil hour. This loathsome dawn...this unforgivable harbinger of yet another painful day...my hands press harder...my eyelids squeeze tighter...perhaps it will go away...this hateful sunrise.

My soul is a broken gourd. Once bursting with a swirling mass of feeling and life, its gaping chasm discharges my very essence in bursts and spatters, resolute in holding nothing but an airy void...I feel empty. I drift...float...filled with nothing, imbibed by everything. My hands ache from pressing harder still...perhaps it will all go away.

My soul is a withered plant. Its roots severed from the earth’s nourishment; parched, shrivelled, its flower flips faintly about in the evening breeze...

The vivacious tune of my heart is tapered to a bland monotone of groans and teardrops...I lose myself in its grievous resonance....sigh’s...”drip drop”s... “pitter patter”s...

I feel empty...alone...lost...

Perhaps...my hands press harder...



"Half of what I say is meaningless, but I say it so that the other half may reach you" - Khalil Gibran

Aloofar…through my bespectacled eyes

FOREWORD - I have been really intrigued about the assumptions we make about bloggers from reading their writings and so I decided to do posts on the idiosyncrasies of specific bloggers. These posts will be totally fictional, quite random and perhaps unstructured to allow a lot of flexibility, and most importantly will not represent ANY actual knowledge of the blogger in question. However I should mention that I have no desire to eulogize anybody. It's not in my nature and frankly I would find it to be quite boring. I'm more concerned with expressing their perceived quirks ***evil grin

Aloofar was one of those creative types who had a genteel manner of representing their creativity and the mechanisms by which they sustained it. One of such mechanisms which he had devised was to glide through the first few hours of his day with a pervading mood of feeble melancholy. The first couple of Aloofar's waking hours he considered to be a series of objectionable rituals. Ever since those abhorrent days in boarding school, when the prefects and teachers had tried to stifle his naturally freewheeling mind, Aloofar had justly acquired a virulent dislike for even the minutest forms of routine, however beneficial they were supposed to be. In keeping with this, he had a ritual everyday of mentally pulling the restraining nails out of the corners of the overhanging closet on the wall of his father's room, leaving it to go crashing down on the loathsome alarm clock, smashing it to pieces when it rang at the customary quarter past four in the morning. The clock was one of those round, biped, mechanical antiquities from a generation before, that could startle the soul out of a person when they had occasion to unleash their cruel ringing.

'Curse the damned thing!' he thought spitefully, acutely aware that he'd now have to lie wide awake, being the light sleeper that he was, until it was time to make preparations for work that day. He customarily spent that window editing many unfavourable recollections while playing them out on the screen of his ceiling. The one on his mind at the moment was his little cockfight the previous day with Yemi, his boss at the office. The ceiling had a number of interesting contours formed on its surface from dust and the irregular swish of Aloofar's brush during his D.I.Y attempt at whitewashing a few months before, and he had refined a laudable faculty for identifying familiar faces amongst those contours during this daily ritual of reflection. The less congenial of his acquaintances always got to be matched with the most defaced patches on the ceiling. Squinting hard at the moment he was certain he could make out Yemi's despicable face somewhere in the mangle of little protruding wires and a small glob of dirtied paint somewhere in the upper left of his makeshift screen. Ah yes, there it was, in all its ugly vileness.

Yemi was the object of his loss of face the previous day. The office was a large floor divided by aisles into five rows of equally sized cubicles each terminating in an exceptionally larger cubicle occupied by the project-lead of that row, the row being an atomic project unit. Each cubicle became something of a sanctuary for its owner and messages were relayed via intercoms and Instant Messengers for as long as one did not violate a deadline or annoy the project-lead in some other equally unacceptable manner. Yemi had unceremoniously despoiled Aloofar's inviolable space on account of his having committed the unspeakable crime of making him look bad in a brainstorming session with the higher-up's, where Aloofar had yanked the show out from under his nose.

'When next you feel the urge to make independent projections like that at such a meeting, please do the rest of the team a favour and shut your pecker!', Yemi had advised, at the height of the exchange – and of his voice. The original event had Aloofar assuming a quietly defiant look and Yemi making a smug retreat to his space in full view of his colleagues, but the beauty of this morning ritual was that he could here now change the course of events, and insert an Oscar Wilde-style witticism, a front-tooth dislodging left hook and a commendatory promotion, from the higher-ups, to the last cubicle for having rid them of such a deadweight as Yemi. A fly currently perched on Yemi's contour on the ceiling, adding to his already gruesome 'face' the appearance of an ugly mole, much to Aloofar's delight. He smiled impishly at the digital clock on his phone. 'How time flies when you're having fun' he mused, swinging his feet off the bed and walking over to put off the soft music that had been playing in the background during his fantastical confrontation.

On his way to the bathroom he had a ritual, of seizing the head of the electric fan and taking a mischievous pleasure in the frantic click click-ing's of appeal the poor thing made to its remorseless assailant. He was all the more merciless this morning seeing as the crest of the fan bore a new resemblance of that despicable boss of his. After a few more blissful click click's he made his way to the bathroom and began to freshen up, swathed in a familiar scent of sunflowers that he liked to perpetually pervade his bathroom these days since he met Norah. He had discovered a curious trait in himself of recollecting past episodes in his life by the most prevalent scent of the time. The sunflower fragrance of his air freshener reminded him of his most recent headlong plunge into that abyss of imbecilic sappiness that often comes with the feeling of 'falling in love'. Despite his constant pretension to coldness and restraint, he was quite the romantic and had penned portraits of several successive empresses of his heart in sparkling verse. He caught himself grinning at himself in the mirror with several long streaks of toothpaste foam streaming down his mouth. He could feel the creative juices running now...where was that poem book when you needed it?

P.S - I've gotten a couple of messages from a bunch of bloggers about my absence. I'm sooooo sorry. I got robbed yet again last weekend and they took the laptop I got as a replacement for the other laptop which was stolen two weeks ago. Again it was at gun point. I guess someone somewhere hates my swagger.lol! Anyway these two incidents have put a bit of a damper on my tendency to [in the words of that bugger miz-cynic] 'leave layabout comments' on all your blogs. I will get round to doing blogrounds later tonight. Until then, as Ms. Mowcher said in David Copperfield: '"Bob swore" as the Englishman said for 'Good night' when he first learnt French, and thought it so like English"

P.P.S – 'Bob swore' is a jocular corruption of the French 'Bon soir' [Good night]. Lol

P.P.P.S – Don Bagucci, how much will your hitmen require for a mafia-style communion on miz-cynic and Afro?