The Year of the Melancholy: Life Likes to Tease

Hello world!

The first poem under The Year of the Melancholy would be uploaded soon. In the meantime, click to subscribe.

I will put the poem here also for those who would like to read.

Enjoy.

Life Likes to Tease

Life wakes me up when I’m feeling sleepy

Tells me to shut the hell up when I’m weeping

Takes my money and throws it into the ocean

And dares me to find it

Or else I won’t eat tonight

Life turns some good friends into bad ones

As it introduces them to a girl called Betrayal

Life advises me to make GOOD friends

But LIFE is friends with

Its alter ego who is a thief

The thief calls himself Death

That’s when I understood

“Show me your friend, and I’ll show you your character”

Life is Death in disguise

Life throws a javelin into your immune system

Life names the javelin infirmity

Tells us to stay there

“Stay in your bed! Don’t get up!”

Life throws pepper into your eyes

Calls the effect tears

The river that flows and dries up

“Life, oh life! You are so unfair!”

“I know that,” says life. “I always take that as a compliment”

Thank you for reading and hope to see you in the next post....

Writing Journal Entry: Bleeding Writer

As I am a writer

The ink is my blood

I bleed words

With pain and sadness

With joy and happiness

With hope to build a home

And love to heal the world

And with romance,

Well--

Let's leave that for space

For that alone can contain

All our romantic fantasy.

~Bleeding Writer by Marietta DeGrant // Writing Journal Entry

Friday Five (Blogtober Day 5)

Happy Friday!

I am always grateful for Friday. Fridays are the best day of the week. Life has been a little bit overwhelming and I am missing some chocolate, but I am slowly, slowly, trying to live life to the fullest and to slow down a little bit.

Anyway, what’s up with you? Today, let me tell you five things!

1. Blogtober has been painful this week. I nearly gave up but I have decided to continue. Kuukie is encouraging me indirectly. Don’t tell her or else, her head will become big…haha.😁

2. I have stopped working for free. For your information, I have volunteered way too much and I need money for internet so bye, if you are thinking of employing me without getting some sort of motivation and benefits. (I am giggling while writing this) 😂😂😂😂😂

3. I have been nominated as UMB Most Influential Student Blogger. Text MBA MARIETTA to 1736 across all networks. Thankies in advance and muaahh. (Screenshot) 💋💋💋

4. I am hoping to write more poetry this month. I’m kinda behind in terms of writing poetry.

5. Finally…….shoutouts to Cephas! ✌✌✌

Let's Chat: Hello friends! What have you been up to???

p.s. No blogtober post tomorrow. Return on Monday for another Blogtober post. Sorry😡

Walking Library (Blogtober Day 3)

She was a library. A novel maniac. All her inside curls up when she sees new novels in stores or when they are displayed on a shelf that has Reduced to Clear signs on top of them. Her heart beats a rhythm not yet known to the world, and her mind goes on a trip to wonderland.

The beauty of the display, the smell of books, the atmosphere of a bookstore. She could live in bookstores forever. She sees stories floating in the air, calling her to come over and make friends with the characters, or visit unknown locations. She eats novels, drinks novels, sleep on bookshelves, but do not bring novels out as waste, which is the only most pathetic part of her life.

“Reading novels is the cheapest way to travel”, she always says. Whoever she is quoting, I disagree.

She makes friends with the characters and understands them. She cries with them, laughs with them. See goose pimples on her, and we all know that, she has read a kissing scene. She fell in love with a character once, we felt scared for her. We all thought, she would not go back to normal. She even told us of a dream where they met and went on romantic dates. A few days later, we gave her another novel and she forgot all about her fictional lover.

But we regretted doing that. She hated the villain so much, she tore the book into two. We became more terrified than the moment when she fell in love with a character.

She would cry when the protagonist was in serious pain or was heartbroken. Her appetite would betray her and she would voluntarily fast, but this time, without a religious or health purpose.

I always felt she was supposed to be in a novel. A fictional character who is hopelessly romantic but a loner, just like Charlie Chaplin. I always felt, she did not belong to this world, but in a pen, yet to be poured out in a book, to be published and make another reader cry, laugh and dance with her.

“Would you like to be a writer, Awo?” I once asked her. She stared at me for a moment, then laughed. Laughed so hard, I felt foolish and just laughed with her.

“There’s no need,” she finally said, after having a plate of laughter and a glass of tears. “There are no more stories again. I’ve read a zillion novels, baby, and almost a quarter of them have the same plot, but with different settings and different character names. There’s no new place to travel to. Just visiting the same life but meeting new people, you know.”

And for once in my life, I totally agreed with her. Just living the same life, but making new friends.

I never had a problem with Awo. I liked her, because she was the weirdest person I have ever met in my life. She narrates to you the stories she had read for free. You do not need to buy novels if she is your friend. She’s also the cheapest bookstore I have ever known.

p.s. Don't forget to vote. Text MBA MARIETTA to 1736. Thanks😚😚😚

An Open Letter to my Friends

This is a letter to my friends and those who will become my friends.

Dear friends,

When I thought of writing an open letter to my friends, I did not know what to write. Even though, I don’t say it at all, I want you to know that I love you. I’m grateful for you. I’m grateful you are always there for me.

From days of dark clouds and missing moon to days of rainbows and comfy sweatshirts, I know you will always be there for me. Talk of days when I needed help to survive and days I was confused, you brought me out and told me to look at the bright side.

Thank you for reminding me of kelewele when I felt I needed something spicy on my tongue. Grilled sausages on days that were forbidden to be eaten on. Chocolates on days my blood needed some cocoa.

Thank you for forcing me to speak, to dance and to fool around. For taking pictures and making memories. Thank you for promoting my blog and my literary pieces. Thanking you for covering up for me when I needed a cover.

Thank you for feeding me when I was hungry and dressing me to look hot, though you never succeeded.

To friends who have betrayed me, anyway, I forgive you. To friends who are jealous of me, it’s normal for people to experience jealousy. To friends who chastise me of doing bad, but underneath your bed, you do worst, God is watching you. And to friends who think I am not your class, so don’t want to hang out with me, I understand you.

To people who will become my friends, learn to contain my silence and rowdiness.

Signed,
Me.

The Girl Whose Name is Not from Cape Coast

This is an excerpt from a book I will love to publish in a few years. This might change as time goes by

Marietta Grant DeGrant

My name is Marietta Grant DeGrant. No, I am not from Cape Coast or any Fante town. No, I am not a Ga. I have had lot of issues with my name.

Sometimes, people tell me I am not a Ghanaian. They even wonder why I have a Voters’ ID card. They make proposals to send me to the police for having a Voters’ ID and allowing a foreigner to vote.

I am not a foreigner. My dad is from Akropong. I am known to have a funny accent which has subsided a little. People just look at my face and say I am not Ghanaian.

I have a question: What makes a Ghanaian face?

 Before I entered the tertiary institution and had my admission, the names of those who will be admitted were published in the Faculty and Department’s database. As soon as they saw my name, the students thought I was a foreign student. They were excited to have a foreigner (white lady) in their Department. What a funny world.

After a few weeks of admission, they never saw the white lady, so they were all disappointed.

A year later, a senior in the department asked of my name and I mentioned it.

“Oh, so you are the one?” she said. “When we saw your name, the guys were happy to have a white lady in the department. They were disappointed when they never saw the white or half-cast lady. Not knowing, you’ve been with us all this while.”

I had to laugh. A white lady? As far as I am concerned and doing my family history, I haven’t found out a white blood that existed in my family yet. I haven’t found out about an ancestor who was from Europe.

Excuse me to say, which foreigner wants to study ICT in Ghana?

Whenever we are in a crowd and my name is mentioned, most people expect to see a dazzling lady, so fair, so endowed, so tall, so powerful. All they see is a timid young lady trying to hide from the crowd. She is not tall. (Excuse me, I am not short either). She has a broad forehead, she wears glasses, so much disappointment.

Some people even think I am a boy after seeing my name on paper or hearing it, mostly when they see the Grant DeGrant and their eyes refuse to see the Marietta. Some even think it’s my nickname.

I am trying hard to enjoy my name. At least before I get married. Actually, it depends on the name of my future husband. My name would be Marietta Grant XXX or Marietta DeGrant XXX. After all, Grant is just my middle name.

It's not my fault that I have such a name. Life made it so.

My name is Marietta Grant DeGrant. No, I am not from Cape Coast or any Fante town. No, I am not a Ga.

And yes, I am a Ghanaian.

Silent War

I have been hearing suicide cases sometimes, and recently, I have heard of 2. Unfortunately, all people do is to chastise and to be judgmental.

I have a problem with that.

I mean, the chastisement and being judgmental part.

You see, we are all humans and of different everything. Different mind, different heart, different personalities etc.

When someone commits suicide, your job is not to sit and chastise the person of being stupid. After all, the person is gone and can’t hear your chatter. Your job is to find out what you could have done if you knew of the person’s problem, and also to make sure no one around you commits suicide since it is becoming very common.

You know, as different as we are, people have various reasons for ending their lives. Maybe, you’re so strong, you were able to overcome your depression and you never attempted to hurt yourself or even attempt to commit suicide.

When the KNUST student committed suicide, most people jumped to criticize her as a fool. To me, I became upset about it. You never know the real reason why she did that. Maybe, her parents told her to study hard or else something would happen, or it could be another reason. You have no right to say she is a fool for doing that.

We claim to know psychology but we still chastise a victim of suicide. Don’t they know suicide is a psychological issue? This is just hypocrisy. I know most religions see suicide as a sin but have you ever considered your own sins?

If you have been depressed before and you survived it, it doesn’t mean someone else has the heart to go through it. We do not even have enough counselling services around us.

Our job is to make sure no one around us commits suicide and comfort those who are depressed and fighting a silent war inside them.

We should create a suicide awareness around us, and an awareness on self-harms.

To those feeling depressed or suicidal, please be patient. Don’t do anything stupid. I’m so sorry you are hurting but everything would be ok. Think of kelewele, chocolate and ice creams. There’s a lot to eat. 

Texts That Would Never Be Sent

Hello world, and January just decided to slow down.

Don’t worry, it would soon be over.

I was sitting down one January day and there was a text I wanted to send to someone. But I realized that, it was not worth it at all, and it wasn’t even necessary to send that text. There have been couple of times when I wanted to send a certain text and see the reaction there would get. Like this one.

I mean, if I send this, I am signing my emotional death warrant.

I mean, how dare you? You are bringing a guy to sleep in your room for the night?

Na-uh. Not happening.

I would never send a text like that. I can only imagine it.

Now, there was a year when I was very hungry in school, it almost spoilt m grades. In fact, I think it did spoil my grades. How was I supposed to survive hunger and code? I am so glad I never sent a text like this to my mum. I would receive a phone lecture in return.

I sometimes write poems about people I like and people I love. (There is a difference). I once wrote a poem about someone. I wanted to tell her about it, but I didn’t want her head to swell, so I kept it to myself. It’s just better than way.

Shout outs to those nights when you want your someone to come over.

And oh, a text to those gossips who….don’t know how to gossip.

Let’s chat: Is there any text you wouldn’t send?

Bedtime Stories: Jesus Comes For His Birthday Part 2

Welcome to the part two of the children’s Christmas story; Jesus Comes For His Birthday. If you missed part one, you can read it here.

Jesus Comes For His Birthday Part 2

The next morning, she headed to Michelle’s house. After ringing the bell at the gate twice, a woman appeared at the gate.

“Good morning, Ma,” she said, stroking the little present she held in her hands. “Is Michelle home?”

“Yes. Come in.”

She entered and saw Michelle sitting on the sofa watching a Christmas cartoon with some of her classmates. Michelle stood up as soon as she saw Adoma at the door.

“Adoma?”

“Hi.” Adoma reluctantly greeted.

“Umm, hi,” Michelle responded nervously. She felt bad after accusing Adoma falsely for taking her ribbon. She avoided eye contact with Adoma. “What are you doing here?”

“Ermm….I came to give you a Christmas gift and say Merry Christmas,” she said.

Michelle’s face lit up. “Really? For me?”

Adoma nodded and handed it over to her. “Here.”

“Well, thank you,” she quickly opened it and it was a box of ribbons of all kinds…..even her favourite, a butterfly ribbon. One she always wanted.

“Wow, thank you,” Michelle said with excitement and hugged her. “I’m sorry I called you a thief,” she said in a low tone.

“It’s all right. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Adoma.” They broke free and she said. “Come and join us and watch the Christmas Cartoon we just got. We have sobolo here too.”

“Okay.”  Adoma went to sit with her other classmates and they ended up talking about other girly related things.

_______________________________________________________________________________

On Christmas Eve, after Mr. Bekoe donated the box pf stuff to the orphanage, they went for their church’s Nine Lessons and Carols festival. Adoma and her siblings enjoyed the carols they sang. After, Adoma went to say hi to her friends, giving each of them a hug, and wishing them a Merry Christmas.

On Christmas morning, she quickly got up and wet round about the house to wake her parents and siblings up. “Come on, wake up, it’s Christmas! Come on!” she exclaimed and ran to the Christmas tree in her pajamas.

“Wow!” So many presents were under the tree. She couldn’t wait to open hers. “You guys, hurry up.”

When the family gathered in the living room, Adoma began to search for hers. “Kuukua! Here’s yours,” she handed her a big box with her name on it. “Nana Kwadwo, yours is that big green box over there. Mama look! Your name is on it. I’ve found mine!” Kwame and dad’s own must be at the other side.”

Adoma began to open the one she found and it was also ribbons with a note in it. “Wow! Mama, look! It’s from Michelle.”

“That’s wonderful, Adoma,” Mrs Bekoe smiled. Adoma found more presents under the tree and opened them. Everyone was happy with what they each got.

After they had Christmas dinner, Adoma walked to her mother, helping her to wash the dishes with Kuukua.

“Mama, how can you be sure that Jesus Christ really visited?” she asked, hoping that she was not losing faith.

“Adoma, you know, Jesus Christ even visited you before today. You became friends again with Michelle, that’s one way of Jesus visiting you because, in a way, you reconciled with him. Donating stuffs to the little orphanage, you gave him gifts. Hugging your friends after carol service, you told him happy birthday and He is here right now.”

Adoma closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes. I can feel Him and He was with me all the time.” She beamed at her mother. “Jesus visited us this Christmas. I hoped he liked his birthday. I hoped He enjoyed it.”

“He did and He loved it,” Kuukua said. All this while, she was secretly listened to their conversation, though she behaved like she cared less.

“Really?”

Kuukua nodded with a smile. “Yes. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.” Adoma and Mrs. Bekoe said and hugged Kuukua together. It was a sacred mother and daughter moment.

“Sweet girl hug,” Mr. Bekoe said, standing at the door. Mrs. Bekoe walked towards him and gave him a hug. “Merry Christmas, honey.” He kissed her cheek which made her smile. Nana Kwadwo and Kwame, together with Kuukua and Adoma joined the hug and it was no, sweet girl hug. It was a sweet family hug. Adoma even frlt Jesus joining the hug circle.

As Adoma climed her bed, she took the picture she drew of her and Jesus under the pillow and smiled. “Happy birthday, Jesus and Merry Christmas. Hope you enjoyed it. Good night,” she kissed it and put it under her pillow. She pulled her covers to her chin and closed her eyes. She felt Jesus say, “I loved it, Adoma. Thank you very much.” Adoma smiled in her sleep.

Thank you very much for reading this symbolism story. I hope you enjoyed and I hope they enjoyed it.

Check back on the blog tomorrow for another blogmas post.

Good night.

Bedtime Stories: Jesus Comes For His Birthday

I wrote this children’s story a long time ago. I do not know what inspired me to write it, but I had fun writing in symbolism. I wrote this for children between the ages of seven and twelve. If you know any child around you around that is between those ages, you can let him/her read it, or you can read it to them at bedtime.

Have fun with this literary Christmas story.

Jesus Comes For His Birthday

“Mama! Very soon, it would be Christmas again,” Adoma said with excitement. “We have to decorate our home so that Jesus would come again!”

Mrs. Bekoe smiled. “Yes, Adoma. Have you been good this year?”

“Yes! I can be sure of this one.”

Adoma was a nine year old girl who has obsession for Christmas, because of the decorations, carols and the most important of all, the birth of Jesus Christ.

That year, she promised herself to be good the whole year so that Jesus would be happy to spend time with her when he visited.

Her father came in, from town with Adoma’s three older siblings, with newly bought Christmas ornaments and a Christmas tree. She quickly ran down and was filled with the Christmas Spirit all at once.

“Daddy, when do we start trimming the tree?”

Mr. Bekoe thought for a moment. “Hmm. What about after supper tonight.”

“Yay!” She exclaimed. “I’ll get to put up the star this year.”

Kwadwo, her older brother, rolled his eyes. “You always do.”

“I don’t even care.” Kuukua snarled. “When you grow a little older……and matured, you’ll find that to be childish.”

“No, I won’t!” Adoma barked.

“Okay! Enough with the arguing!” Mr. Bekoe warned. “You guys shouldn’t be doing that.”

Adoma stuck her tongue out at Kwadwo and Kuukua and walked over to where the newly bought ornaments were kept.

“You guys are home?” Mrs. Bekoe asked, poking her head from the kitchen door.

“Yep!” Mr. Bekoe answered with a smile. “This Christmas, the malls are mobbed than ever.”

Mrs. Bekoe laughed heartily. “I have to go tomorrow and purchase foodstuffs for the holidays. I’ll have to go earlier than I thought to avoid traffic.”

“Mama, look! Figures of those in the manger!” Adoma jabbered. “Mary looks beautiful.”

“She is”, Mrs. Bekoe said, shaking the excess water of her hands and walked into the sitting room to check out the ornaments and the tree. “When do we start with the decorating?”

“Right after supper!” Adoma yelled with excitement.

“Whoa!”

“Can we have supper earlier today, Ma?”

Mrs. Bekoe laughed. “Anything for you, baby.”

“So, what about supper right now?” she asked.

There was silence. Nana Kwame, Adoma’s other brother checked their clock and it was past 1pm. 

“Oh come on, we haven’t even had lunch yet.”

They all laughed. “Patience moves mountains, Adoma.” Mrs. Bekoe said, and laughed again. Mrs. Bekoe liked to laugh heartedly. People would say that’s her hobby.

Adoma spent her afternoon, drawing funny pictures of Christmas. She even drew a picture of her and Jesus and wrote Me and Jesus under it.

She frowned. She remembered she had a grouch with a classmate of hers. They weren’t friends anymore because she accused Adoma of stealing her flowery ribbon.

Would Jesus still visit even though she’s not in talking terms with Michelle, her classmate?

Definitely.

Definitely not!

She just needed to find out.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Just before supper, when Adoma helped her mother set the table, she narrated her grouch story with her mother.

“Adoma, you have to make up with her as soon as possible,’ Mrs. Bekoe softly told her as she placed a spoon beside the plate.

“But Mama, I did not steal her ribbon!” she blurted out. “And what if she doesn’t want to talk to me?”

Mrs. Bekoe sighed. “Come, Adoma.” Adoma walked towards her mother as Mrs. Bekoe sat on the dinning chair. “You know, Jesus Christ did not come down from Heaven to die for only sinners. 

That’s why we sing Joy to the World, the Lord is come. We don’t sing Joy to Sinners, the Lord came for you or whatever.”

Adoma’s lower lip dropped and she sighed. “So, what should I do?”

Since school is on Christmas break, why don’t you visit her tomorrow? And if she still doesn’t want to talk to you, you’ve done your part.”

She nodded and smiled. “Okay, she threw her arms around her mother and hugged her. Then she broke free. “Let’s set the table, eat, and then trim the tree.”

Her mother giggled as her daughter pulled her from the chair.

_________________________________________________________________________________

After supper, the family trimmed the tree with the ornaments with music, playing behind Christmas music.

“Does anyone have anything he would like to donate before Christmas?” Mr. Bekoe asked his family, who were all watching the Christmas lights on the tree blinking.

“Yes. Yep!” went the responses.

“There’s a box in the kitchen. Just drop them into it, and make sure it’s full before Christmas Eve.”

“When do I get to put the star?” Adoma asked.

“You know it’s Christmas Eve,” Kwadwo said exasperatedly.

Adoma jumped up from the sofa and took some tinsels. “Time to decorate my room also.” She picked up more ornaments and walked to her room. First, she pasted the funny Christmas pictures she drew earlier in the day on her walls. She went on to use the tinsels around her room. She drew out a Christmas tree out of a green cardboard, cut out the shape, and pinned it on her wall.

An hour later, she was sitting on her, finished decorating, getting ready for Jesus Christ.

But there was one thing she had to do before Jesus could come.

Reconcile with Michelle.

Even the song Hark the Herald Angel Sing said God and sinners reconciled.

She stood up and looked for stuffs she wanted to donate; some clothes, books and toys. She took a piece of plain A4 sheet and drew a Christmas tree with ornaments. She wrote To whoever who wants it….Merry Christmas. She folded it nicely, put it into an envelope and sealed it.

Would Adoma get the courage to go and make up with Michelle? Would Michelle even talk to her? Would Jesus Christ even visit?

Check back on the blog tomorrow at this time to read the second part of the story.

Tell the little girl/boy to wait.

I’m trying to love Mondays

Dear Monday,

I have a love-hate relationship with you. Did you know that? I love you because, you’re like a fresh page for me to make things right. I hate you because you can be very exhausting, and full of pressure. It gets annoying sometimes. I love you because my mind is refreshed from weekend fun and relaxation. I hate you because your alarm clock sounds different and really scares me.

The streets are all full of moving beings and to talk of traffic—ahh, I cannot contain it. I use the moment in the public transport to catch up on social media. Gosh, that makes me miss the weekend more. Friends post pictures on social media about their weekend. It makes me want to cry mpo. Friday, Saturday, Sunday, I miss you guys.

Sundays are the shorter days. I bet you still some hours from Sunday, don’t you Monday? You are having some Sunday Funday, there noor, darkness falls. Aden, bra?

Do you know what makes me miss the weekend more? When I go to school or work and I am asked how my weekend went. Even if I did not have fun, it makes me miss the Friday night feels on my bed. The chillaxing and hugging of the pillows, that was so amazing.

But don’t worry Mondays. You have some good in you. It’s the day of fresh start.

Watch the video here 

Six Word Stories Found in my Creative Journal

Hello everyone!

Today, I stared at my creative journal and became angry with it. In the middle of the year, I thought the journal would be full before the start of October. Those days, I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote. New ideas were coming and I wrote.

Writer’s block visited me and I was like, why now? It was my New Year goal not to see you at all, and you came without being invited.

I opened a page and saw an entry. The title was six word stories. I remember when I was in my teenage years (The most horrible years of my life), I wondered why there should be a story in six words. I mean, how possible? The writer must describe the dress the character is wearing, the environment, the situation at hand etc etc. So, I thought six word stories are not my thing. I see them to be titles.

But to my surprise, I wrote some this year. Somewhere in July, August, September?

These are six six-word stories I found in my writing journal.

1. I can’t have conversations with pictures

2. He became the word I love: Glorious.

3. I can never forget your stories.

4. The Beach and I: Friends Forever.

5. I drowned in his passionate kiss.

6. We all love somebody in overdose.

They were fun to write and very mysterious. I wanted to explain each of them, but I prefer to leave it look mysterious. I have become MYSTERY myself and I need to write one, too.

Let’s chat: Have you ever written any six word stories? Can I have a look? Tag me @MarieNoelGrant, both Twitter and Instagram.

add this to your weekend plans

Hello world

Are you thinking of what to be doing this weekend? Then make us a priority this Friday?

Wait what?

Yeah. Other writers and I wrote some plays and they would be performed on Friday!

Yes! This Friday, baby!

The theme of this festival of plays is An African Walks into a Voting Booth, and it is hosted by the Accra Theatre Workshop.

At where?

Nubuke Foundation.

Tickets would be sold at the gate. It starts at 7:30pm.

Come and let’s watch how Ghanaians behave during the elections.

See you there! Don’t miss it!

To forgive is Divine

I do not know what’s happening, but for a month now, I have been reading a lot on forgiveness. At church, we learn of forgiveness, I read about forgiveness and all these things are not intentional. I just meet them, and you know what, I was assigned to give a talk on Forgiveness at church too.

In the recent book I read, there was a chapter on forgiveness alone. Dr. Clarissa stated four levels of forgiveness she has used in her work with traumatized people over the years. Each level has different layers.

The four stages of forgiveness are:

To forego-to leave it alone

To forebear- to abstain from punishing

To forget- to aver from memory, to refuse to dwell

To forgive- to abandon the debt

In my research to write the talk for church, I learnt that if you are having trouble forgiving another person or even yourself, ask God to help you. Forgiveness is a glorious, healing principle. We do not need to be a victim twice. We can forgive.

It’s just as simple as that.

I am so glad to be learning about forgiveness at this time of my life. First, I wondered why I was coming across this topic, but it’s all good. Maybe, I will seriously need it in the future.

I also want to write that, if someone has offended you without the offender knowing, and it hurts you so much, confront the person, point it out, and let the person know about it.  It’s better that way, rather that harbouring it in your heart yet smiling at the person in public. It’s poison. Let it out and let the person know. If he/she apologizes, thank goodness. If he/she does not, clear the person out of your way. In the end, forgive him/her. You have done your part. Now, you can smile.

Here is a little piece I wrote about forgiveness in my writer’s journal

FORGIVENESS

Sometime, I am grateful you exist

Other times, I wish there was nothing like you

It’s very difficult to forgive some people

The hurt cocooned my heart, I could barely breathe

But, in the end, you are very essential

Very necessary, very useful, very beneficial

Because you teach me inner peace

And you teach me to get rid of negative sentiments

I need someone to forgive me too

I need someone to forget my silly mistakes

And I need to forgive that someone

Every time, I am grateful you exist

Other times, I wish you were always around

Go out there, and forgive someone.

Thank you for reading.

The Story of a Half Painted Wall

The wall always knew that even though he is not fully painted and it has been left there for years now, he would be a freshly painted wall and people would admire the beautiful colour he displays. He would be smooth and made fine. People would stand in front of him to take pictures.

He is a half painted wall, and a half painted wall’s unfinished beauty is not appreciated. The rain comes down and washes away the little beauty he has. He always cries for the touch of a brush, for a painter to take him as a canvas and turn him into art. He yearns for the romantic stroke of a painter’s roller, to turn him into beauty and a dream.

He wants to feel the wetness of an emulsion paint, to attract sunshine and feel like home. He prays for a painter to take him as he is now, and turn him into something the painter would be proud of. He wishes for a person to lean against him, so that he can feel what the person is thinking.

This is the story of a half painted wall.