Labels and Lies

A book, a thing which we read from and gather data. A book is neither a weapon nor a shield, yet a book darting towards an unguarded head becomes a weapon.

A book held close to the chest refracts an object aimed at a in this instance it becomes a shield.

A book is a weapon, a shield, an umbrella, a paper weight, a shoe, a pet, a jewel…

A book is not a book, but a book is a book when we see it so.

A label is not an identity but perhaps a lie we chose to believe.

Labeling can be a form of imprisonment because it limits the true potential of an object, being or relationship.

A room to reminisce

THE FIRST ARCHIVES- A poetic journey into and through adolescence

A room to reminisce

Being in this seventh grade English class allows me to become nostalgic and reminisce about when I was in seventh grade.

The class is filled with about twenty miniature adults, most of them still seeming innocent and not yet having an encounter with puberty. A boy arrives late and almost refuses to sit next to me. Prejudice, shyness, innocence? All have been taken into consideration; I chose to opt for innocence.

As the class continues memories float back into my head, I am twelve again. I can see myself in the eyes of all the little girls. I am the shy girl sitting at the back and the loud girl who sits at the corner of the room. I am the smartest and the student who just needs more encouragement. I have lived fragments of each student in this class or rather, one might say they are living segments of mine.

As the teacher shushes the students I am propelled into the future. I am five years older than I was a minute ago my spelling days are over, but its nice to know that some parts of us will always be lived through others after us.

- I had plenty of free lessons while I was studying my AS level in grade 13. So on this day I opted to stay in my English literature class room, where my teacher was teaching the grade seven students. Here they were just starting out high school and I, just about to finish. I had a moment to put to paper what was on my mind.

HEART OF THE STORM

For a long time I felt that my soul was in the sky.

I felt my spirit was that bird flying by…

For a long time I felt my heart was red with streaks of white.

I would sense things before they came to sight.

For a long time I knew the sky,

But the sun would hide away

and the moon, the white round eye would not appear.

And things in my world would not be so abundantly clear.

The blue would turn a shade of purples, red and orange.

For a short time

my orange would turn into lime.

Suddenly I would sense a change.

Not good, not bad, but strange.

I would feel nothing but

The heart of the storm.

Behind the clouds of my calm

Would lie a glow.

A colour different from the ones I know.

The heart of the storm,

All of it, written in the lines of my palm.

THE FIRST ARCHIVES- A poetic journey into and through adolescence