ABRACADABRA

Copyright: Dumebi Philips 2019

If it was a cherry,

would it be free,

hanging on the words,

from your darling,

would you really see?

if it was a flower,

would it bend to,

the wind,

talking about its,

dreams and wishes,

would you really see?

The magic of my life has always been to express how i feel, and to have the audacity to link these emotions from a place of truth, an unusual ground these days, with not too many legs.

It comes in its own way, with different faces, and from different places and i have learnt to listen, with my ears clinging to its words, and my hands praying i can somehow say how i feel, say it without forgetting the words, the logic, the pain. It is as magnificent as a spell, with a long wooden wand, swinging from left to right, as it dances to recitations that always do something, enact things from nowhere and everywhere.

I have been restless, wondering if i have forgotten the spells, and how i can clean up the heaviness in my head without them. It has not been easy to walk away from being able to set yourself free, because there is no escape, when you run from the very thing that gives you more air, a better consciousness, a firmer reality, and even when the spaces are wider, and the grounds give you all the room to cover with some colors and splendor, it still never takes you from the abstractions and complications of not being able to pour out. The clock never helps, it is a lingering reminder of how easy it is to flee without a return, and how we might one day wish for backward steps, with tears drawing on our cheeks, thinking of all the things we missed, i missed, everything that tapped on my senses, the ones i never dared to say, or feel, or write.

It has not been easy to walk away from being able to set yourself free, because there is no escape, when you run from the very thing that gives you more air, a better consciousness, a firmer reality

These days, i take long walks, and it is a new ritual. I try to have these interactions, the spontaneous ones, sometimes reckless but with enough form to stay significant, and the realization has been clear; people really need spells. There is a general numbness in the air, and i can sniff it out in the eyes that take themselves quickly away from mine, and the smiles that seem to force themselves against stiffened cheeks, but we keep running, to places and to people, to churches and to mosques, from mornings and till evenings. We never quite accept what our spells might be, and the implications of this truth. Well, nobody is a messiah, and i write these words with bloodshot eyes, a few questions too, while my truth keeps growing fat, with a loud belch between hours, a pull back that comes when it wants, regardless of where i am. It screams. It calls. It reminds.

Once my truth was a woman. She had the prettiest eyes and a smile that never went away. This woman was more than her firm breasts or smooth curves, she was a little like an answer, a calm to my chaos. In those moments, contrasts were clearly created, and i was able to see the other side, and this was my revelation. I watched her between her joints, her smoke, her need for whisky, and never really understood how my truth could come so broken and battered but beautiful and liberating all the same. Perhaps our spells are in unorthodox places, and maybe we can see clearly if we want, we only have to be brave enough to. So cast your spells, and make that magic.