The paradox

“The curious paradox is that when I accept myself just as I am, then I can change.” – Carl Rogers Most of us struggle with the issue of identity. We struggle with gaining enough self-confidence and self-esteem in order to properly navigate through life. And we struggle because we somehow feel inadequate. There’s a voice inside […]

via The Paradox — Cristian Mihai



It has been a year since I last posted anything,I have been fortunate enough to journey in different paths of my life, I have realized what I really wanted to do in life is make believe,I have lost, i have gained,I have found a new bit of me.

I was a bit scared that writing took a piece of me but it is not in writing that that piece was completely lost!So yes,I am back- let’s catch up!


More wine please?Where did we leave it at…?

Of the dark

Because you have decided,

I shall let you be

I shall let you take away

my friends,my family,my conscious

because living is just but an illusion of the head.





THE point?

Whatever  begins,sets in  time

just like you ,

shed ,brisk in to the thin air,

you will end.

so what is the point of living ?

you may ask?

the point of living is knowing that one day you shall end.

it is the only sure thing.


Sometimes I am afraid to write, sometimes I shun myself from writing because it delves into me like a narrow tunnel and makes me go through things I would rather forget. I am afraid of my writing yet at the same time I cannot do without writing. Sometimes it is the only get away I get to have, the only person willing to hear my story, the only way I can let it all out and not fear that they will turn their backs on me. Sometimes writing is more of a hobby and at times I miss it terribly .While other times I just don’t even want to think about writing ,I don’t want to go there, I do not want to feel vulnerable and so I do not write .That will have me carry the burden for many days until I write. I should write .I will write. I have no option other than to write. So I write.

So I take my laptop and open the word page and start writing. A few words at first, my heart so heavy ,so enchanted .The words have been dancing through my head none stop these previous weeks and so now I try my luck to write. I try my luck to at least pride myself in coming up with words that make a little more sense to more than just me. I gather all the courage and promise myself that this time I will write it all, and let go off this burden and then I open the MS word. The blinking cursor stares at me. Almost mocking my inability to come up with words. Mocking my over attempted efforts to write. Then I scorn it at first and dare to prove it wrong. I think that probably writing about writing would work the magic off and probably get me on a writing spree. So I start to explain how I feel like, something like “sometimes I am afraid to write…”

…and the cursor keeps blinking!

Damn sometimes I hate writing and yet I love it so much!


Maria’s Story


She slept with her jeans on. I had a boner the whole night until my navel hurt. You could smell her woman and I ran fingers along the hem of her denim hipster. Her back shook. Twitched. But when I tried to snake my fingers down her panties, she slapped my wrists.

Like darts, I poked her face with my tongue tip. It helps blood circulate your face, I told her. This is the most beautifulest face I’ve seen in my life as a painter. Of words. I’m beautiful if you close your eyes. She said. And I dreamt of her naked.

For seven days we cuddled. No sex. Are we lovers or something? I said NO. Then don’t breathe like that. I kissed her forehead and I think her third eye chakra must have opened.

During the night we tickled each other and giggled. During the day we kissed…

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If I Were to Write a Poem to an Ex


I miss you when I’m cooking eggs.
No. Really.

I miss you when I’m missing my new girl.
She has no ass like you.
But she has prettier eyes than you.
Eyes like two moons.
On a grey cloud.
She is nothing like you.
Nothing like us.
Nothing like the fights we had.
Until ugali and sukuma wiki.
Turned cold.
Like pussy before.
Nothing like you.
She is.
She is not a poet either.
So if I break her heart twice.
I’ll know her tears will be true.
Her pain won’t be empty words.
On a page.
And the world won’t give a damn.
About our drama.
Like who didn’t clean the dishes.
Or who texted first.
She won’t hide her smile.
Behind colourful words.
And three layers of lipstick.
She is nothing like you.
She is smart.
She is lonely.
I can easily cheat on her.
With you.

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