I will walk back to that place, though it will cost me dearly. Take a slow stride just right past it for a while to suck in all the confusion. Stare at the giant door just right in front of me for a second and take in deep breaths as I contemplate entering. I have no haste in the world just a measure of comfort verses anxiety, no fear am already on the welcome mat. Now for the dance of kings but I can still go back if I don’t even dare to place my palm on the door knob. Oh! Such a venture it may be a manifestation of the sun, moon and earth, all working together in unison to provide energy for dear life.
I shall take you back to roughly a decade ago, a place so simple and where I really began to grow. Still a child I was but starting to vibrate like dear daddy in the living room, confusing the younger siblings from their cheeky play, though this is not crucial, no it not. It a taste I always go back to when placed in this circumstance. Playing in the neighborhood dusty fields on Saturday, paying no attention to my brown filled sneakers and stained shorts and shirt. As the sun reaches overhead on the blue sky it’s time to rush home for hot maize meal cake dipped in fermented milk sweetened by a spoonful of sugar. Our Saturday treat, white maize pudding! Ruth would call it. What a dear it was, a decade down still cherish the taste though now I would not dare set that on my dinning table.
Rhetorical, if father time would send me back a decade as I am now just before lunch time and place white maize pudding on one hand or maize meal cake and a bucket of chicken on the other what would I choose to satisfy myself with.
I am still at the entrance sharing ideas with my conscious, rationalizing on the thousand ways to enter, a million ways to sit and a billion words to say. I have done it a couple of times but never got the science to it. If given a million chances to enter that door I would open it every single time, think of a billion way to sit and finally sit and smile and let the clock run its course. Just an hour is needed enough to form a spark and hold on to the spark and not the flame, never let it burn. The flame to hot, is it not!
A black dot, the circular spot that overwhelms any other color, a mark that can define both beauty and chaos on the canvas its applied on. It is the beginning to a statement on print and the end to a letter to your most cherished. Within it there is no other stain, just repetition of its posture.
I seek to stain my canvas with a black dot a unique blot jotted down with a pencil easily removable with a stroke of an eraser. I prepare to play the game of rockstar, titans and gentlemen, seeking comfort in the company of black dots. Setting forth for a journey pumping my engine to full, commencing a road trip for the ages. Looking around the country scenery before reaching the said destination.
I have a note to write and the setting is on a bench in the park, with a brief after taste of orange juice in the back of my tongue, whilst chatting up listening to a history of the world and setting mindless bets that bare no reward a way to spice up the conversation. Sending quick gazes to my immediate left then staring down toward the ground oblivious to the beautiful scenery surrounding the bench. Nothing else just me and the bench.
Its time to set the mood, as the sun dims it lights to dull orange with a stroke of bright yellow rays on the center. The breeze sets the tune like a Mexican serenade. I take a sip of the orange juice and pass it around my taste buds for a sweet and sour taste and dive in for a peck. The rest is a covert broadcast but great broadcast is it not.
It’s Time to take my eraser and dust off the black dot on my white canvas, sited on my living room chair recalling the day’s event. I am drawn back to the giant door but this time it’s unexpected. The door seems to be wide open as if the wind blew it off its stance. The thousand ways to enter have been already completed now just an overwhelming vacuum trying to suck me in. I am immersed by the taste of the sweet and sour orange juice, the setting of the bench and what that lay on it. I am now fully blotted by the black dot running ten pages deep soaked in ink. I still want to dive of the water slide once more, still want to open the door once again and waltz right in, just ignite the spark is the order of the heart so that nothing can burn it down, but once the flame burns, fire cannot be controlled just consumes till it goes-off.