It’s 2 in the afternoon and some change. The gods are stoking the ether with ice; the air is nippy. So is the tip of my nose – frosty – akin to the muzzle of an assassin’s gun, better yet, like the devil’s nipples…too soon? A hip t-shirt drapes on my torso, it enchanted me and I nicked it from my brother’s bag some time back (girls like bad boys, eh?). Any cooler apparel and I’d exude plumes of mist (admit it, that’s a tight pun). I’ve imbibed one too many a cup of coffee. My bladder intermittently tinges and I have to nip to the john every few minutes.
A sermon fervently spirals on in a nearby church; the preacher, probably in square-toed shoes with a kerchief oscillating between his pocket and face, makes his bacon rumbling on in archetypal preacher voice; sonorous. His counterpart, possibly a protégé, intently translates his monologue in Swahili, some essence is lost in translation. A horde of children frolic outside in shrill voices, defiant of the cold. Motorbikes curtly rev past. A vegetable vendor wiles for clients in song like fashion, atta boy! It’s a Sunday, not much goes on here.
The glum ambience persists.
I’m lying in bed, face up, phone tenuously hoisted, typing this copy on Google Docs since the darn laptop has abdicated its duties to read my usb cable. It sits beside me in its frivolousness, like a Christmas tree after the festive season, with no whiff of purpose whatsoever. It’s an apt atmosphere to write; the ambience is soaked in solitude, a writer’s impetus. There is something about the cold weather that makes people want to…sorry…that makes words flow out more inherently. It’s a good combo, maybe even better than politicians and their chests of false promises and proclamations.
Do you know what else would blend in well with this weather (Ok, intimacy, so obvious. Let’s get it out of the way) ? Melancholic music. Sad music would stir in effortlessly right now. Not this contemporary Uber depressive Billie Eilish shebang. I relished a couple of her songs before she amassed much brouhaha, now she’s the teenage sad bird poster girl and I can’t fathom all the hoopla around her. I’m talking more Frank Ocean, Sam Smith, HER and whatnot. Music that’ll infuse you with poignance over a relationship that never was or what could have been. We all have that someone that it never panned out with. If not pick a crush, play the aforementioned music and smother in wishful reveries. One thing though, pick anyone but SZA, she is taken, I will – soon.
I’m dubious over folk that listen to happy music when they’re glum. They’re the Ilk who chortle and it briskly gnarls into full blown crying. Sadness sits heavy and demands to be felt. Address it, let it simmer and eventually abate. Let it take all the forms it needs to. Give it time. The antidote to desolation is desolation. Caveat: Be wary when partying with broken hearted friends, if not you will rouse on the fifth month of the next leap year.
Good movies aptly capture dark emotion, that’s why we might drop a tear or two when a sad scene plays. Recall this scene in ‘The Pursuit of Happiness’ when Will Smith and his son have to coop and spend the night in a washroom as they had nowhere else to go, shit was sad, stung my tear glands. Or more recently in ‘Someone Great’ towards the end when Jenny resigns to the reality that Nate and her will never be together. She pens down a palpable poem whilst riding a metro, a sullen tune chiming in the backdrop. I relish sad movies; they are oddly satisfying, happy endings tickle my fancy no more, what am i, 13 years old? I’m over the banality of scripts having merry endings. It’s good wishful thinking but it doesn’t appease anymore, it is like an athlete running on bad knees, a fall looms.
My writer’s block has cleared, I’m rejuvenated, my muse too, she never left, just sulked a tad. There’s not much I can do but make my bones writing. Writing is a lonely job, like the weather outside. So, before you resume grazing your palms on other people’s thighs or hairy chests, what are you watching?