Written by: Oratile Ndimande
It’s the morning. Wake up and take the day, my alarm proposes.
I say nothing, pretending it is a part of a dream I’m trying hard not to part from.
It nudges and pokes me from behind,
Holding me as though it wants to spoon
but really it is pushing to drag me out of bed.
It’s caressing whispers quickly become annoying tugs and tears at my ears
Fine!, I get up and stumble over my tekkies to the curtain.
Right now, I feel as useful as a knock-off pair of earphones after three weeks.
I am as fresh and firm as all the socks in my laundry basket,
and as creative as the plain instant noodles I had for dinner last night.
I pull back the curtain
It’s wet roads, a small wet neighbourhood of tents and shacks,
And my optimism soaked and sunken to the bottom of the city.
What is there for the taking when things are so slippery and cold?
I’m told to say yes and that it will be okay.
To nightmares of overcooked dreams and burnt ambition,
To the shitty drafts in my bin, written from my imagination in overdraft,
To the quick cues I've missed and long queues I'll have to withstand...
Yes, it sucks. But it will be okay.
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