MAJOR DISCOVERY

 

I just made a major discovery about the importance of the family and the role each person should plays in the life of the another person. I realized that for any relationship to be effective, standing and functional, persons involved must understand the meaning of the concept of a “partner” and “partnership”, “partnership cooperation”, the importance of “boundary recognition”, “boundary appreciation”, and “boundary accommodation”.

 

You know, according to Littlejohn (1999), as a system, a family embodies qualities such as wholeness and interdependence, hierarchy, change and adaptability, and interchange with the environment, (Yerby et al., 1995) with particular emphasis on the relationship between family members. So we would see that for any relationship to thrive, people must understand that the other person’s option and opinion are relevant even if not strongly familiar.

 

Recognizing the stand of a partner is the first way to earning the trust of the partner. Consequently, we could begin to talk about reaching an amicable compromise through dialogue and conflict management among other techniques; realizing restrictions such as the social, personal or public proxemics;  and space acceptance. In other words, for a relationship to evolve positively, no one member of the relational process should be rigid to a fault even when there is need to stand on the alert, hold a ground, and never bend a factual opinion or tradition.

 

Hence, I’d end by saying, boundaries are as important as the energy we put into a emotional, behavioral, professional and or even a spiritual process. This is because boundary from a systems perspective, refers to the explicit and implicit rules guiding, and regulating relationship interaction among people, family, and loved ones (Minuchin, 1974). So keep the boundaries tight, flexible though, but tight enough to keep the relationship tighter.

THE IDEAL LOVE

M̶̲̅α̲̅nγ̲̣̣̥ a people carry Various believes, notions, perceptions and claims around about W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t †ђξ ideal love should look like. †ђξy subject their reasoning to †ђξ revelation of passion which Ȋ̝̊̅§ also subjected to a time spent, and cage †ђξ truth in †ђξ ideals of knowing by celebrating mockery. W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t Ȋ̝̊̅§ more baffling actually, Ȋ̝̊̅§ ♓☺w gallant and rich our pride gets when that which we once adored and nursed. responsibly gradually fades away until we have it no more and ♓☺w restless and carefree we become when something or someone really cares about us, sometimes even to a fault forgetting that it Ȋ̝̊̅§ †ђξ moments that develops passion not performance. All of these and more should lead to †ђξ desire to know if truly we are aware of W̶̲̥̅̊ђA̶̲̥̅t †ђξ ideal love really Ȋ̝̊̅§.

It Ȋ̝̊̅§ essential to establish that ninety-five percent of †ђξ relationships teenagers christen and award total commitment financially, physically and psychologically crash even before they gain root. This Ȋ̝̊̅§ because to †ђξ mass majority, materialism Ȋ̝̊̅§ †ђξ sole route to proper emotional expression. It Ȋ̝̊̅§ believed that as long as one can share with a seeming stranger his or her money, feelings, body and reasoning, a true basis for love has been established. †ђξ rate at which friendships collapse as a result of misinterpretation of affection and as a result of uncontrollable lust and selfishness have drastically risen beyond containable proportion. †ђξ ideals of love that preserved true friendship have today been adulterated by †ђξ desire for sex and thirst for insane adventure. Culture has been banished and replaced by wild discoveries. Love has turned into a weaponry for tears and pain. So where would trust lay tent when deceit’s flag dance confidently in our hearts?

At some point in ones life, †ђξ value placed on true biology Ȋ̝̊̅§ sublime compared to that placed on derived chemistry. In other words, †ђξ preference we give to our family reduces as time pass by and as people with new ideas come our way. †ђξ new girl on †ђξ street with the purple ribbon tied around †ђξ beautifully packed hair, whose smile appears though sinister-like, yet very romantic and unavoidably breath taking becomes †ђξ Cinderella of a time and one’s sister becomes a secondary maiden who Ȋ̝̊̅§ addressed only when Cinderella fall to sleep. †ђξ so called “prof” at school becomes †ђξ world’s greatest for as long as his sight could be caught even if its from afar but †ђξ gut of †ђξ most powerful person in ones life, †ђξ father, becomes as disgusting and irritating as †ђξ pile in man’s intestine. We forget that like †ђξ details in †ђξ tale and myth of Cinderella fades as our days increase and mind develop, our self created fantasy of a queen in a stranger would fade if a balance cannot be established between family and desire,and between true biology and derived chemistry.

Finally, it Ȋ̝̊̅§ essential to state that †ђξ basis for love Ȋ̝̊̅§ communication. Whether intimate or casual relationship, neither Ȋ̝̊̅§ bound to succeed in a situation of faulty communication. Without proper communication, the beautifully graced and alluring young lady who works in a pharmaceutical firm would define †ђξ dirty, filthy scoundrel who treads upon a regular path of a street as insane and invalid, dirty and death bound while on †ђξ other hand, to †ђξ dirty, filthy scoundrel would define †ђξ same lady as selfish and inhumane, wicked and unresolved. However, all these subjective reasoning and shallow minded descriptions could have a definitive conclusion if a basis for communication could be established and facts of existence shared in a polite and comforting conversation. An ideal love craves for memorable moments, and not arcades of performance that could fade away into time.

Love isn’t these

LOVE ISN’T THIS
I promise you, you have no clue what love is. ‘cos love isn’t the sweetness conjured out of four lustfully locked lips palpating sumptuously the subtleness of two shy tongues tasting as though it were sweet butter mint. Love isn’t a juicy beverage; it isn’t the fondling of ripe oranges moulded in twos against a plain tree-like chest filled with milk only crawlers can milk. It isn’t a shallowness of passion burning with the hoarseness of the fiery furnace but quenched after an exasperating climax ending in minutes( maybe 10minutes or less) with a sonorous solo of temporary satisfaction like a note of a depopulated orchestra void of its conductor.

Love, as I know it is creative stupidity. It is a flourishing wilderness buried in abundance despite drought. It’s a sad happy territory conquered by foolishness but revered in wisdom. It is that excited madman in the jungle, clad in dusty purple jacket, painted in sand and marked by the terrible anger of the dry wind. It is the only feeling fathered by hate and mothered by hope. Love! It is the last ingredient of hope in times of boredom and frustration; it is a decision, mostly generously pointless, yet very critical and tough. Love is me in a distance, when you have run like a toddler in search of the next thing to deep into your throat and I wait praying that you find sweetness instead of nail to encourage your effort.

Love is me in you when away you run and I know you deserve me no more, but still I cannot do without your thought guarding and guiding my every way.

WRECKING STORM

WRECKING STORM by thelazymagician

 

Before your loudly mute radio

I hear lifeless drums like slimming drops of winter’s snow.

I hear mourning songs of your taunting doubt,

And your love story dancing to a death of pregnant wordlessness. 

I hear the sound in the tomb; the tearless crying …

MY TEARS ARE LABELLED FOR THE CROSS TO SHARE HELL! HOLY FATHER OF BRAVE SILENCE, WOULD YOU JUST HEAR MY TEARS, AND MUSTER MY FEARS?
MY TEARS ARE LABELLED FOR THE CROSS TO SHARE HELL! HOLY FATHER OF BRAVE SILENCE, WOULD YOU JUST HEAR MY TEARS, AND MUSTER MY FEARS?

I can hear the peace in this turbulent ocean.

Rushing lightening, irking wave of wrecking storm

I can hear the loudness of a silent blast this clumsy night,

Hissing softly through exhaustion

Like a hungry rat in a thorny hole loaded with cooked fish

 

I can hear your frets, they scream like crickets

Softly, loudly, silently, angrily, patiently, dreadfully

But I’d wait. I’d be there until that unending end

At your side to wipe those dry tears from your face

Cos’ your voice would be that sound, 

The music for my life, the song in my deathe

 

50 Reasons Not To Date A Poet

Betty Generic

wpid-IMG_20130925_192158.jpg

It may sound romantic, but in search of that elusive metaphor, poets can be somewhat  “eccentric.”

  1. If you date a poet everyone will think you are the jerk they are writing about.
  2. You will be the jerk they are writing about.
  3. They have an unnatural affection for book stores and office supply stores.
  4. They have deep conversations with Animals, Clouds, and Grecian Urns.
  5. Excessive use of  “poetry hands.”
  6. Excessive abuse of  “poetic licence.”
  7. Excessive use of  “melancholy.”
  8. Excessive use of  “dramatic emphasis.”
  9. They collect obscure words that have not been in circulation for at least 100 years or more.
  10. They insert these antediluvian words into conversations just to rebel.
  11. They think children’s books are sublime.
  12. They refuse to care where the remote is.
  13. All of their furniture are positioned around windows, for them to stare out for hours at a time.
  14. Your parents will think they are possessed.
  15. They are possessed.
  16. You…

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CELEBRATING THE PLAGUE

We cluster like tardy bats on wretched fig tree

In the chimney chill of this faculty’s nagging nights

Cold, yet cramming in frustrsting yawns and chunking with a heavy retina

A study of wavering scrolls, one we never really understand

Except the fury of the beautiful semester’s ritual

A worthless celebration of our lovely plague- the examination

 

Our brains run like an empty barrel on disparaged hunter’s belt

We whimper Till Day Break in satisfactory waste of valued pelt

A flock of wolfish sheep in helpless desert’s terrain

If our eye shut at will, we fail the ritual of pain without gain

For it is necessary to remain in self placed chain of pointless sleeplessness

To demonstrate loyalty to our worthless lovely plague -the examination

 

Celebrate the examination

Celebrate her with tact and ambition

Tomorrow you will be awake fully drained and with great damns

Your brain will be sterile like an engine gunning for the knock

Your body heavier than the stoic monk drained of every sense of will

Celebrate your coolish foolish readingish 

Celebrate now! That tomorrow you may laugh and claim you understand.

GUILTY AS CHARGED?

Guilty as charged?

Men forget that being in love isn’t the same as maintaining the love. They forget that a lady may consider you the golden sunset that rids the evening of its basking splendor, but the moment the moon shines in its dimness and the oddity of its brightness strikes their surprised fancy, the purpose of probability and the weight of choice may cause a shift- a major change of heart – that would make the golden sparkle of an evening sunset into haven of greyness and silver caused by night and darkness.

 

You see, for a sunset to never disappear, the day must forever remain. For the voice of the man to remain the thunder in the times of her windy night, and the storm of the heavy rain of her heart, her frustration must remain the unique twist for her ever present happiness. So that when she says words like ” I don’t want to see you again”, you don’t hear “you are a troubled some of a gun who sees making me upset the only way to remain in charge. I do not want to have you around me; not now, not ever again. Go and never look back cos’ you are a disappointment”. Instead, you interpret her words as ” I am tired! Very tired and although I love it when you are by my side, I think I’d love to be by myself for now. Would you please give me a hug, and tell me everything would be alright and that you would never leave me alone even though you have to go now?

 

See? Ok! Love is not a curse, it is a process. It is not a reaction, it is an attitude. Although these qualities need both implicit and explicit funding, effective communication at every point of the way serves as a balance that regulates and guilds the process and also embellishes the attitude. For instance, when a lady tells you “No one listens to me anymore” you could only encourage her by understanding that she means ” I am afraid I am boring to you. I am afraid you are no longer interested in me. I seem to be very sensitive at the moment. Would you give me some special attention? I would love it. I’ve had a hard day and feel as though no one wants to hear want I have to say. Would you listen to me and continue to ask me supportive questions such as WHAT HAPPENED TODAY? WHAT ELSE HAPPENED? HOW DID YOU FEEL? WHAT DID YOU WANT? HOW ELSE DO YOU FEEL?”

 

A lady who talk to you doesn’t talk because she considers herself a liability or wants to be considered thus! In fact many ladies, women or girls of this generation would not want to be treated as infidels. They talk to you about themselves because they care enough about you to talk about themselves. So do me a favour, listen to them. Listen to her, and try not to profer solutions because, then you may present a foolish image of yourself and definitely be missing the point in the process.

DELIVERANCE

I try  my  best to  be a good Christian, and  I certainly  understand  the  whole concept of  crucifying  your  flesh, bringing it  under  your own  control rather than vice versa, and  ideas  like that. Okay, maybe understand  is  a strong  word.  Maybe  ‘I  am  familiar  with  the  concept’  is  a  better  way  to  put  it.  Anyways,  that  is  not  the  point. The  point  is,  me  and  the  concept  of  ‘longsuffering’  and  ‘bringing  the  flesh  under  subjection’  have  been mere  acquaintances;  acknowledging  each  other’s  existence  and  occasionally  exchanging  pleasantries,  but for the most  part  pleasantly  ignoring  each other. Till  Deliverance. Don’t  get  me  wrong.  I’m  also  familiar  with  the  concept  of  deliverance.  I  know  it  comes  with  vigorous praying  which  may  include  but  is  not  limited  to  curse-breaking,  demon-slaying,  virtue  recovery,  and  so  on. But  Deliverance  and  I  are  also  mere  acquaintances;  we  co-exist  on  terms  which  are  mutually  beneficial. Whenever  a  deliverance  program  is  on,  I  simply  break  my  fast  after  each  program.  Sometimes,  if  I’m  feeling really  pious, I  break at five.  But  the whole idea of  avoiding  food  for  days on end? Dear Lord.  No. But  that all changed after this particular Deliverance. That  Sunday,  while  we  were  all  having dinner,  daddy  announced,  “I  hope you  all  know that  there will  be a deliverance program  this week.” I nodded, still enjoying my  meal.   “Good.  We  will  all  be  partaking  in  the  program,  and  we  will  follow  its  terms  to  the  latter.  That  includes  the fasting.” I nodded and  continued  eating.  So I  would  have no breakfast and  lunch  tomorrow. Big  deal. “Iyanu,  how old  are  you?”  my  dad suddenly  asked. I stopped eating  and  looked  up,  surprised.  How old  am  I?  What did  my  age have to  do  with  anything? “I’m  fifteen years  old, sir,” I replied. “Hmmmm…” my father  replied  thoughtfully.  Then,  turning  to  my  mum,  “she’s  old  enough,  Folake.  I  think it’s about  time she learned,  don’t  you think  so?” “Yes, dear.”  My  mum  replied. “I  agree; she’s old  enough.” I looked from one parent to the other, suspicious. What  the heck  was  happening here? My daddy nodded  and  turned  back  to  me. “Iyanu,  I  think  you’re old enough to  join us in  the dry  fast.” Wait,  what? “In  fact,  I  think  you  should  have  started  long  before  now.  But  better  late  than  never.  You’re  going  to  join us  in  fasting  tomorrow.  So  prepare yourself, okay?” Ha. Imagine  my  consternation. Dry  fast  ke?  Dry… heeeyyyyyy. I  panicked.  Internally,  of  course.  I  was  convinced  that  I  was  going  to  die.  I’ve  seen  what  dry  fast  does  to my  parents;  it  weakens  them,  dries  them  up,  completely  subdues  them.  My  mum  refers  to  it  as  a  spiritual exercise,  one  to  subdue  the  flesh  and  sharpen  the  spiritual  senses.  I  think  it’s  more  of  a  spiritual  extreme sport;  it should  be left to  the pros. Anyways,  you  can  imagine  how  my  dinner  was  ruined  that  night.  At  the  same  time,  my  appetite  attained cosmic  proportions.  I  ate,  munched,  chewed,  and  basically  tried  to  line  my  stomach  in  preparation.  Fat  lot of  good  that  did. To  start  with,  a  stomach  ache  woke  me  up  in  the  morning,  took  me  to  the  toilet,  and  proceeded  to  empty my  stomach.  And  so  I  went off to  the first program  of  the day  with  a feeling  of impending  doom. However,  that  first  day  wasn’t  so  bad.  We  prayed,  broke  curses,  slayed  demons,  and…  yes,  some  strongmen were  also  buried.  I  came back home thinking, ‘hmmm… this isn’t  so  bad.’ I spoke too  soon. By  8  o’clock  that  night,  my  chest  was  throbbing  at  an  alarming  rate.  By  twelve  midnight,  my  temperature was  disturbingly  high,  and  I  there  were  black  patches  over  my  eyes.  I  had  to  take  a  cold  shower  before  I could  get  any  sleep  that  night.  By  the  next  morning,  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  drag  myself  out  of  bed  and  go to  the  program.  It  was  a  good  thing  that  daddy  drove  us  to  and  fro  that  program,  otherwise…  I  shiver  at  the thought. Anyways,  the  second  day  of  the  program  was  a  struggle.  But  the  height  was  the  vigil.  I  couldn’t  help thinking  how  unfair it  was; we were not only  to  be deprived of food,  but of  sleep  too? And  the  vigil!  Oh  my  God!  We  did  a  lot  of  curse-breaking  and  releasing.  Do  you  know  how  stressful  those prayers  are?  Whenever  I  pray  those  prayers,  my  hands  hurt  for  a  whole  two  days  after.  And  now  I  was supposed  to  vigorously  move  my  hands  up  and  down  as  if  I  was  delivering  karate  chops  to  an  unseen  object, all  the  time  shaking  my  whole  body  rigorously.  At  some  point,  I  felt  myself  going  dizzy.  I  stumbled  a  bit but  quickly  found  my  footing  when  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  deliverance  minister  coming  dangerously  near. However,  the  whole  lack  of  food  and  water  was  beginning  to  tell  on  me,  and  my  heart  rate  was  increasing again.  At  the  same  time,  I  felt  my  knees  going  weak  and  quickly  sank  into  a  chair.  Almost  immediately,  I heard  someone  shout,  “Don’t  be  tired!!!The  Lord  is  your  strength!!!Stand  up  and  pray!”  really  close  to  me, and  when  I  stood  up,  this  person  shook  me  so  much  I  felt  my  eyes  were  going  to  fall  out.  I  couldn’t  help glaring  at  the  minister  for  a  bit.  Why  were  they  so  energetic,  anyways?  It  was  obvious  they  weren’t  fasting- no  one can go without  food and  water for two  days and be as hyper  as they  were. Eventually,  I  had  to  go  back  to  my  prayers.  But  I  couldn’t  concentrate  anymore.  I  couldn’t  even  form  the words I  was  too  weak.  I  felt  dizzy  again…my  heart  rate  had  increased  again…  ‘fall  down  and  die!’  is  the last  thing  I  heard  before  everything  went  black.  And  so  I  fainted  on  the  deliverance  ground.  No  doubt,  they probably  thought I  was  having  an Encounter. I  wasn’t.  I  was  just Tired. And thus ends the tale of my first encounter with Deliverance. With a capital D! Ayowande Adekunle

MAKE ME A MARTYR

Make me a Martyr

 

She would make me a martyr

When she shatters my heart with poison

Made from love’s bitter beer

She would make me a martyr

When she calls me a loser with no despair

A loser who’s dream she sees no vision.

She’d make me a tomb,

A special tomb where my memories would rot in peace.

Her fangs will be soiled with certainty

Like a beast, she would cast be away with all sincerity

She would call me a prospect for the eagle

But in her heart she would see a timite, a mice or a sniggle

She would make me a martyr

In the end, when words are king

Where king is troublesome ring

And where words are poisonous arrows

In the air that never misses a target

She would make me a martyr

She would make me in paints

Burgundy or blue, my tomb shall remain

For ever in her heart where I was a fool, insane

She would make me a martyr

Not like the saints, but a monk

Whose pain would bring her heavy gain.

With tears in my eyes and creativity in my pen, I know that someday you would make me a martyr
With tears in my eyes and creativity in my pen, I know that someday you would make me a martyr

THE DEVIL OF ODUMUYIWA

And in the beginning, there was a kingdom where I lived as a king without crown. No! I was a god with no earth who sneezed and every being therein caught the cold. It was named Odumuyiwa for a reason, a kingdom laced with power and prestige, but at the sight of my being, every logic was caged and every flair was suspended for the sound of my voice was like a rushing wind echoing from a distance that at the call of a single being, the multitude responded in turns. I was the all powerful, the mighty and the all belligerent, the herbalist who dined with the devil at sunset and told the tale at moonlight to the demons, the woods and the animals with multiple heads. I made the kings, I upset the thrones, I watered many to weeds to growth, and spake other to their deaths. But unfortunately, I knew I needed more, for the witch only flies because her wings haven’t been pecked by the clippers’ pin. And only until I become immortal would the fear of me be total and my defeat, impossible.

 

I couldn’t rest, I couldn’t help but be fretful like a grumpy frozen wolf lost into the wild of the arctic. Truthfully, I was powerful, but the dissatisfaction of morality created in my gut a vacuum as large as hell’s bottomless pit. And the more I conquered heads of royality for the sake of creating a moral justification for my morality, the more I am sure that the blissfulness of life is renegade and limited to the flow of blood into the brain or heart. I knew that since  I could feel; pain, love, hate, hurt, i could be caught. Hence, it became obvious to me that unless I have conquered death itself, I have conquered nothing, so my quest must remain unfinished. Yet I loved the spill of their blood, I loved the gnashing of their teeth. They were weak and I hated them for making me know how weak I could be if or when defeated, so I killed as many weaknesses in me by killing as many humans I encountered. Oh! I conquered villages! Like a beastly tiger at large, going on the pilgrimage of its deadly hunt I conquered from all quarters because I wanted to rule deep into the reach of my sight and tall into the length of my feet. So I took wars far north and east of Odumuyiwa and won far south and west, cruising like Lancelot, the honorable knight of Camelot until that moment that I won that battle that made me lose the war.

 

He was an old man without style leading his clan with the finesse of a champion. He never cries, he never wails, he was like the stubborn grass of the dry season void of water but at war with its death. The king of a small village whose weaponry is the words he spoke and the tears he does not shed. To this village without name, pain was a fascinating brain, a curse for eternity to which they are zain and affectionately inclined. I was anxious to defeat it, to hold it captive, make its people desolate and at the met y of my grace. Oh! I charged like a cheetah unto the antelope who has chosen never to run, destroyed their farms, burned their huts and waiting for them to beg for mercy. But instead, I met a wall of crushed defenses confident even unto its death without a word of apology or plea. They smiled like the war was a call for victory and at the sound of my rants and pantry screams, they laug. Fhed at their loose.

 

Then he began to speak- the man whose village was without name began to speak so loudly that he could not be stopped. He ozzed with the confidence of the mummy; a dead man walking whose only value are the words he pronounced. With a voice like the husky trump bone he rendered the advise that wouldn’t be yielded. He said ” you people of vintage vision have come like the sand upon this sad sands, you have destroyed all things like a volcano on the mountain top. You are shocking fools of the moment with mere strength left to be proud of. You have come like a wolf on raid of the flocks, like we are the type of flock without a candid shepherd”. He chuckled, as though he had more to say, looked into our eyes in search of a fear he surely found because his laughter rose after he had set eyes upon us. He continued, repeating those words with a conviction that it would be his last and I must confess, it shouldn’t have been his last, even though I enjoyed the spill of his blood on the turf gulping out like palm wine escaping from the wrecked tapper’s keg “the more you see, the less you know!”. He was landed a strong blow of dagger into his throat, and it felt good because the cry of victory that rose across my camp was not as familiar as others heard and although they were small, their defeat seemed more significant for reasons unknown. I was proud of my General and certain at the same time that he was the dumpest proud man I’d ever meet unless I become immortal.

 

Now it dawned on me that the most realistic illusion was a pin in the rib I cannot shy away from. The old man’s throat had been slit like a ram in Ramadan and instead of the gladness of victory overwhelming my wit, I felt deep down, a sort of fear I cannot explain even when I repent and become the most saintly sinner ever know to the human race. He would soon appear, I could feel it, the one that I cannot mention his name, the one I do not know! He would soon choke me with the sword, with the glove and the wooded coffin. I could feel the end drawing nearer like a movie in fast forward mode and I was so afraid that I knew it; ashamed and I hated it. I have to be ready for the war, Now it is looming vicariously and I must be ready. My bloody soldiers who are clothe in black and death are ready to die, for without my life they are dead to life, and in my death they would be dead as death itself. So I owe then an honorable death like the Spartan’s 300 at the Trojan war or a victory like the capitalists in the terrain of Venice who are beautiful and subliminal in all ramifications. At Attention!! they stand waiting patiently for the call of their lord, a father who had never failed them. Their gravest woo befall them, and in excitement they fret and hope. But suddenly it sounded marvelously loud; the bang of the century that no one could trivialize. It was like rapture in my ears, so scary and real just that it was no rapture, it was a slap-like bang on my calumny face. I’d probably been sleeping too much that only a miraculous slap could raise my death-like self from the aching bed. Wow! It had all been a dream and it was over. In the gravest fury of a lifetime I turned like a beastly herbalist ready to devour it foolish prey. Lo and behold! It was my mother that stood above my head with a wooded turner. “Would you get your lazy ass out of that bed and go throw the trash before I break you head?* she said.

SPEAK MY TONGUE, DIE BY MY SWORD, BUT DONT LOVE MY WAYS
SPEAK MY TONGUE, DIE BY MY SWORD, BUT DONT LOVE MY WAYS

HORSES AND TIGERS

HORSES AND TIGERS

 

There are only two types of people in this world, the horses and the tigers and in my opinion, women are the horses while men are tigers. But don’t get me wrong, there are some women that are men and vice versa. Either ways, what I’m about to discuss fits correctly to whichever faction you find yourself.

 

A woman is like the Horse, she is aggressive, wild, and cautious but at the same time, like a horse, she’s controllable and tameable. At many times in the formative stages of the wild horse, it feels the need to never be maimed either psychologically or physiologically, so it builds its defenses around its most priced strenghts which are its rock solid indestructible heels and the breath taking impossible speed which sometimes are hard lucked flaws that could be catastrophic. A woman is like a horse, whose strengths are her being and her deception and like this honourable animal, she possesses a rare trait called the insight which is a weapon limited by the reach and the richness of the emotion and tact. This is because these emotions and tacts could be made fussy by situations, could be limited by experience and could be clouded by the helms of sentiments. She’s like the Arabian thoroughbred Darley on the course of Ascot in England, threatened by her jockey to move faster than her counterparts and pace. But unfortunately, no matter how determined a Darley get, it is only going to move as fast as a thoroughbred Darley, not more only less. A woman is driven by insight, so she could only get hurt as much as she can hurt which in many cases is a lot.

 

On the other hand, a man is like a Tiger, it is cunny, swift, angry, silent and predictable. The tiger lives for the hunt and even when the game is beyond its reach, it believes its strength is sufficient to keep him bold and free no matter what the end play may present. It cannot afford to be tamed or drained of its wit, so when caught in the limbo of unawareness, its wails are bitter and touchy. But It aches more for the loss of its freedom and control than the possible loss of a limb for whence its swiftness is pronounced and deadly. A man is like a tiger, proud and confident for his strength lies in his ability to foresee. Once the forest becomes too plain, like a tiger, he senses a threat where the horse senses an opportunity for a flight. It then waits silently for the manifestation of the woe but when it see non, its rage increases because life for a man is like a chess game where no champion ever loses territory without a purpose. That is why the strength of a man is his weakness for his game sometimes moves faster than his plan; for every tiger dies in the hand of his territory and the day a lone tiger attacks the gentle elephant, that day it meets its end like the arrow meets the heart of the knight riding the desert’s champion; the camel.

 

This is why when a man meets a woman, he senses an aura, unique and splendidly admirable for the wellbeing of his pride from a distance, and like a tiger, silently and dangerously he attacks the neck, not to kill, but with the sole hope that she might never escape again cos her her heart is all he wants to capture like the bushman does his daffodil in the thick forest where everything is thorn to its skin but the lovely smell of the rear Floweret. If he is lucky, he wins, then an empire, he establishes around her that she may glow like the beauty of the sun and that her grace may flourish in his sight like the hay of the valley at winter. He channels his rage to chase away every beastly entry, for he foresees every possible terror, and from a distance sees off every attack, warns his woman against them, but her vision is within, so she sees only that which she can reach. She does not know that the world is of two creatures, her like, the horses and the field for his like, the tigers who are ready to kill her tiger to prove a point that every territory can be invaded cos even the mightiest beast much perish. Maybe her insight would protect her, maybe not, but most times, it takes a better TIGER to win the battle of HORSES.

Maybe her insight would protect her, maybe not, but most times, it takes a better TIGER to win the battle of HORSES.
Maybe her insight would protect her, maybe not, but most times, it takes a better TIGER to win the battle of HORSES.