Thoughts foam aloft my head. I shoot for the stars but land beneath the clouds. Drop-drip-drop, the shallow, growing pool melts into the sun, dissolving into thin air, dispersed and formless – stillborn. Alas! Now I am thirsty, now I am ready to drink.
I hesitate… because I am new at this gig. I want the sentences to flow effortlessly. I want to be controversial and readable, acceptable and baffling.
I hesitate… because the each of the last four sentences begins with ‘I’. This seems an exercise in ego-buffing and bashless self-indulgence. Yes, I am a grandchild of the modernists – the individual is King. The empowered woman – a goddess, a Queen. The empowered African woman who dare give herself permission to be heard – a wind of change whistling across the Savannah concrete and grass ceilings!
I hesitate… because there is nothing new under the stars.
I hesitate… because I have only two eyes.
I hesitate… because eloquent souls have sailed the waves more gracefully than I.
Why should my voice rise above the murmur of 7.346 (and growing) billion?
And yet I must:
For I am part of a divine chorus,
A wide-eyed witness that must testify to the wild,
And unveil the hidden light.
Yes! There is life under the Sun.