10 years later!

Oh wow! Do people still blog anymore, more to the point do people still read blogs? Its been a decade or so since I have been here. More than a few grey hairs have made themselves known and gravity has done a number on more body parts than I can describe. Life has happened, kids are quite grown (still 2), husband still around (that is usually not a given) and we are new and different people. I started by reading back to my posts and tickled myself pink with some of my younger musings. I am grateful the internet kept this for me though, its like reminding myself of who I used to be, my ideals at the moment and it helped me figure out how i transversed the last decade. The more things have changed the more they have stayed the same. I am amused by the fact that I refused then to be called a feminist when I was actually one in a lot of ways, but I am glad to announce that that I am fully and properly out of the closet in techicolour. I Tres Enchante, AM A FEMINIST! Well That should have been obvious. I am gonna try and spend some more time here again, I think this is a healthy outlet. I will be 40 in a few months and its time I went back to the basics and examined my inner thoughts.

Untitleable

They are laughing hysterically Laughing from deep down in their bellies Tears of merriment clouding their vision Why? Why are they laughing? Why are they laughing when the heavy burden of sadness oppresses my heart How can they not see the tears of bewilderment that course down my cheeks, Tears that scald the skin as they fall to the pitiful dry, cracked land of my birth Yet they continue to laugh.   They are feasting and eating, Stuffing their rotund overweight bodies with wine and drink Why? Why are they feasting? Do they not see the hunger that has sapped the strength from my body The hunger that has dried the milk in my withered breasts? Breast that can no longer feed my son, who is saving his parched throat by crying no more Yet they continue to feast.   They are dancing Jiggling their behinds out of step with the music I cant hear Can they not stop to see the blisters on my feet Blisters from travelling this long, winding , never-ending road A road that is filled with potholes and stones that pierce my bare feet A road whose lifespan has just been extended to add to my blisters Yet they continue dancing. 

Da Kink in my hair

My title was actually stolen from a rather poorly performed Canadian-Carribean series that use to be on television, because it just seemed to express exactly what I wanted. I know there is always a debate going on somewhere about the issue of African women and their hair, it is always a topic that attracts a lot of emotive sometimes downright angry responses. I am an African woman and when I was growing up, I couldn’t wait to be older so that I can have silky soft flowing chemicalised hair like my older female counterparts. For me it was the epitome of beauty, and at that time the vision of salon-finish curls on treated hair represented ultra chic. Sure enough when I grew just old enough off I went to subject my hair to the rigors of the chemical regime, relaxers, retouches, sets, blow drying etc. for 8 whole years out of my life. Rain was public enemy number 1 and don’t even dare talk to me about getting into the shower without layers of protective gear over my precious hair. I never liked weaves so for the most part I was either squirming as the potent sting of Dark and Lovely fried up my hair, or under the hood of a hairdryer covering my ears so that they are not scalded by the intense heat. This was a regular routine, and even when I was a struggling law student in Uni I always had some money to get my hair done up. I will be honest and say that the initial push factors for stopping the treatment madness were that I was absolutely revolted by the smell of relaxers and the hairdryer was just sheer agony for me. So after 8 years of such hard work, I decided to embark on the transitioning journey. When my real hair reemerged something else happened to me. I felt liberated, I felt honest to myself. The one reason why I had never liked weaves is because I just don’t get how Caucasian looking hair is supposed to merge with the chocolate brown of my skin. I embraced my precious kinky hair and welcomed it with a fierceness that surprised even me. For a while I tried out dreadlocks, my conscience was clear with them because I knew there was nothing artificial about them, my hair never changed its structure and form. However I am back to my afro now, and I couldn’t be happier. Don’t get me wrong, I do love looking great, I am as influenced by fashion trends as the next woman, but only to the extent of the clothes on my back, don’t mess with the fro! I am not trying to send out some desperate plea to be recognized as a black woman to whomever, but I am simply expressing the true me. This is the person I want to see when look in the mirror; this is the person who gives me confidence and self –assurance. I am not judgmental to my sisters who choose to wear their hair differently and when I compliment them on their hairstyles I am not faking, I am being sincere. It looks great on them but it is not for me. I am in love with the kink in my hair and contrary to one of my fav artist’s statement India Irie, I AM MY HAIR!

reflections

I sit down today in my dressing gown, occassionally peeping across at my newly born son and ponder. Am I today even half the person I set out to be? Granted some of the ideals I had in my thoughtful teens were mere flights of fancy but I did set some pretty solid foundations of who I hoped to be. Now 13 years later I wonder, true I know who I am today but if my 15year old self met me today would she recognise me? Would she approve of thejob that I seem to have settled myself into? Would she drool over the life partner I chose? Would she gaze and admire my maturen not so perfect body? Perhaps I set myself standards too high. Because relying on the hormone induced imagination of a teenager mighty not yield desired results. Instead today I critically look at myself through my mature 28year old eyes. I see a strong woman, a mother of two amazing boys, a wife to a wonderful man, a lawyer whose career is about to soar, whose body bears all the stretch marks and scars that tell the story of a life well lived.

New Blog

i decided to chronicle my baby journey in a new blog, check it out: www.yummymummyfromzim.blogspot.com

Halfway Mark!

i cant believe i am halfway through this pregnancy, it feels kinda surreal. 20 whole weeks of carrying a little somebody, and now the somebody is really making their presence felt, it feels like its party up in there most of the time. so state of mind: happy, content, excited. State of body: not so good, i always thought i was born to do this but eish its been more of a challenge than i anticipated. i wish my first one wasnt so smooth sailing ( no i dont really) but at least i would have been prepared for this one. still we soldier on!

little one is a bit of a globetrotter, was in Europe in December in the dead of winter, we are off again next week. hopefully the ice has thawed and it will be nicer!

P/s in case you hadnt noticed this one one lazy baby hence the absence from blogville. ((yawwwn))

Wake me up when the new year gets here! or is it here already? (((((yawn))))

Its been way too long since I came to blogville and I thought I would do a courtesy call, my page was feeling a bit neglected. It’s a new year, new adventures and new expectations. I am not sure exactly how I feel about 2011. Its almost as if I haven’t yet wrapped my head around the fact that we have entered a new year. It seems as if its just a page that we have turned in the calendar. And that scares the daylights out of me. I haven’t done the “obligatory” reflection on the previous year. I haven’t planned for the new year in any way. In fact for all I know I am still on holiday, that’s how blasé I am about the new year! Hmmm…
Not that there is nothing at all that is happening in my life, far from it. One of the most exciting ( read exhausting, scary yet wow) adventures of my life is happening. I am gonna be a mommy again! Ok I know my martenal instincts kicked in the moment I gave my first cry ( after all we ladies are already born with all our eggs intact and all isn’t it?), yet I cant help feeling a bit nervous about doing it twice over. My first baby was a surprise, and the pregnancy was smooth and niggle-free, even the birth was a surprise. (no wonder my son is so full of surprises). This time around I am not so sure, I spent the first three months feeling utterly horrible and wanting to sleep all the time. I know I am supposed to be all glowing and stuff, but stuff it this is hard work! I love my baby I really do and I think conception is one of the most amazing miracles, but I cant wait to love her from OUTSIDE my body!
So anyway I shall try and sit down and see if I can map a way forward for 2011, but truthfully speaking, from where I stand a week into the new year, looks like I am just gonna roll with it, for the most part. Maybe it’s the preggy hormones but darn it, its too much hard work trying to figure out what to do with the year.

Happy new year people!!!!!!!!

random

Addiction: (Noun)
The state of being enslaved to a habit or practice or to something that is psychologically or physically habit-forming

I never fancied myself to have an addict’s psyche, but I guess each one of us has that one thing which we don’t realize that we are obsessively drawn to. I am not even sure if mine is an addiction, but I have discovered something about myself that quite amused me. I am crazy about magazines. Now ordinarily this is a statement which would not raise even a single strand of eyebrow. 90% of the female population likes magazines. But for me, there is something about the smell and feel of a brand new magazine that gives me something akin to euphoria
Euphoria: (noun)
an exaggerated or abnormal sense of physical and emotional well-being not based on reality or truth, disproportionate to its cause,

I am absolutely happy when I open a new magazine and I settle down to its glossy gloriousness, and devour its witty pieces and beautiful pictures. I have certain magazines that I buy every single month, whether or not I have the money. In fact I should just subscribe to them and get it over with. My only challenge is even though the popular adage says opposites attract, I got married to a man with just as much insane love for magazines, the guy kind of course. So now we are faced with the possibility of having to dedicate a whole room as a magazine library. People tell me to give them away, I look at them with daggers in my eyes. I am not selfish but I just like to hold on to my babies, every so often I go back and re-read articles from four years back.
That’s just me, if this deserves a straight-jacket, bring it on!

Assistance required Blogville, please!!!!

I cant believe i am doing this but i am near desperate (lol thats a bit drammatic) but anyway if anyone passes through this page and sees this, please help me. i am looking for a song called RICH- BY BRENT JONES AND THE TP MOBB. please help i have been looking for it for years.

serious food for thought

A discussion with a friend today got me thinking about a controversial issue. Now if you are African ( at least southern African I am not aware of the cultures in other parts of Africa) you will be aware of the custom of paying the bride price. This is when a man decides he wants to marry a woman and approaches her family with gifts and in modern days hefty amounts of money and cattle as bride price. It is only after paying these that you get your wife and take her home with you. Now some feminists have made so much noise about this practice saying it oppresses women, that men treat women like objects because they say that they “paid “ for them. it’s all good and true in some instances but I would like to offer a different argument to the subject.

I told my friend that if I had known what marriage was like I would have insisted that he charges much more than he did for my bride price and he laughed out loud. Called me crazy but I gave him my reasoning and the conversation went something like this: (p.s my friend is married as well)

Enchante: sha if i knew what marriage was like i would have insisted that my father charges much more!

friend:iwe uri benzi chairo ( you are crazy)

Enchante: say what you want but you guys have it easy

Friend: u figure we have it easy? i might just love this argument

Enchante: yes, and dont give me BS about the expectation to provide for the family, its ancient, women work as hard. in fact we have 3 full time jobs, at work, being a mother, wife to you and a fourth, housekeeping. and all are done simultaneously, everyday, for the rest of our lives

Friend:i think the problem that u are having is that u are suggesting u guys go it all alone and we basically play no part AT ALL

Enchante: i dont know about you sha, but the average african man will get home and either start flipping thru channels or read the paper, you are lucky if he plays with the kids, then expects a hot meal in front of him, doesnt know what happens to the dishes afterwards, goes into the bedroom expects tactics of pornographic film quality and wakes up the next morning asking where the hell his blue shirt is not knowing or caring who washed or ironed it and off to work he goes. am i lying?

Friend:k, b4 i reason out, how would u have that scene played out instead? PS, i laughed!!!!

Enchante: well i would expect that when i get home, he immediately takes the kids so i have time to cook ( or even better once in a while he offers to cook) then after we eat he helps clear out the dishes, i can do the dishes while he puts them away, trust me after that i would be more than will to perform wonders in the bedrum coz i wont be as tired also i would feel appreciated

Friend: k, well, honestly speaking i can tell u men are like kids, they are not born with a nature that is fatherly or husbandly, unlike u our partners u are born with the instinct and it only but grows, u have to educate us on your needs and expectations at times, i have been told once in a while, not saying am good coz at times i just do the dishes wrong but i get to do it coz i have been informed that it helps save energy and allows for some action after hours, lol

Enchante: well you see there are few men (like u perhaps) who after being told that a little help is appreciated, actually go ahead and help. most just nod but never do it. i will tell you that one time my hubby cooked and his son laughed his lungs out and said "daddy havabike" (daddy doesn’t cook) imagine my horror. what kind of a man am i raising, what kind of husband will he be?

so dear readers, and i will insist invite comments on this one, what are your views? should the bride price be scrapped and men and women treat each other with consideration or while men will behave badly anyway they might as well pay for our services?

Is forgiving someone a sign of weakness?

Ok I never thought I would go back to this subject but it seems inevitable that I do. Those of you who have been following this blog will know that I had a messy break-up with my bestie and things just got downright ugly. And I told myself I was done with it, done and dusted and moving on. For a while I was, for several months I didn’t think much about it. I would always wonder of course what would happen if we were to meet. But I didn’t dwell much on it. But somewhere along the line I realized that I was no longer holding onto the grudge. Suddenly all the hurtful things that were said didn’t seem to matter anymore and truth is I kinda missed my friend. After all she had been my anchor for all of 9 years. 9 of the most important years of my life so far, when I made that transition from a giggly teen to a woman. Its tough to just throw away that batch of memories.

Anyway we have started talking again, baby steps, nothing too hectic. Now my issue now is my other friends, (we have this whole SATC thingy going on- me being Carrie of course) are giving me grief for forgiving her. They were there for me during the worst part of it, with boxes of Kleenex and supportive words. They took me dancing and got me sloshed and filled all the gaps she left. So maybe I should understand them being territorial about me and not wanting to see me get hurt again. But what I don’t understand is how they decided that my ability to forgive is a sign of weakness! How is that possible? Isn’t forgiveness supposed to be a noble, self-liberating decision? I am confused here, anyone to help me out?

$$$ issues

I had kinda gone MIA there simply coz I just didn’t feel like writing, nothing was stimulating me enough to want to get down to a post. And its amazing that what I usually find annoying is what triggered me to finally sit down and write. As a rule I am not a big fan of people sending forwards to my email, I don’t care how funny they are or how tragic and sad they sound, I just don’t like forwards, period. I can count on one hand the number of times that I actually read one before deleting it and even fewer times, me deciding to forward it to someone else. But then this one caught my eye, I don’t know whether it was the title, (which spoke about what women want) or if it was the fact that the first thing I saw when I opened it was the glorious hair and beautiful face that belongs to Robert Patterson (someone help hold down my cougar instincts!) anyway this whole paragraph is irrelevant to my post by the way, I just sort of enjoyed making a grand entrance and doing an intro.

The subject of discussion is one that has been done several times over, even a number of times here on blogville, but what the heck. It concerns the grand issue of men providing for their women. And I shall put a disclaimer here and say this post refers specifically to married men providing for their lawful wives (this rules out small houses for the avoidance of doubt). Now we all know that even the bible has placed men in the unenviable noble task of providing for the family as the head of the house hold, fair and fine. I have no problems with that, hell show me a girl who doesn’t want to be spoilt and pampered and I will show you a blatant outright liar. Where is the problem then you ask? One of my favorite adages is that, culture, and indeed society is dynamic. Therefore one shouldn’t feel obliged to be stuck in the dark ages where a wife’s lifelong ambition was to always thank her hardworking husband for the pair of knickers that he bought her. I think we have reached a stage where any hardworking, professional assertive woman, will graciously accept a gift from her man, but not because she cant afford it herself. I am not by any long shot a feminist ( though I am still trying to figure out why that word always evokes such negative energy from people) but I do subscribe to the motto that what a man can do a woman can do even better. So yes, I will let dear hubby buy me anything, from a pair of diamond earrings, a blackberry, a set of wheels, but not because my fine self cant cough up the dough. Simply because he is my man, and he is allowed to show me how much I mean to him by spending some cash.

P/s I am not saying the world is now rid of the Khanyi Mbau’s and the Anna Nicole Smith, but that’s a topic for another day.

The elusive "one"

A discussion with my bestie last night planted some thoughts into my head and made me ponder over the remarkable issue of meeting "the one". Of course, watching Eclipse just before bed also made me wake up with all sorts of wonderings about life partners vis the Bella-Edward-Jacob triangle. what i am thinking is, first of all, the age old question, is there a single "one" person, soulmate, love of your life kinda person that you will ever meet in life, or is it possible that you can meet a few people and still love them intensely and whole-heartedly in a lifetime? unfortunately i am not sure i have an answer to that, it still baffles me. but for argument's sake, lets say that there is "the one", how do you know when you meet them?

I am certain its more than just a cliched catching of the eye across a crowded room, it even goes beyond butterflies or heated passion. there has to be a more unfathomable (my thats a big word) connection that is stronger than anything that could break you. you have to be able to be FULLY yourself with that person, no pretense, no trying to impress. you have to understand each other on all levels, the term i used to use when i was younger was "with your hearts beating to one rhythm" well figuratively speaking at least. You have to be able to look at that person and tell them the silliest things that get into your head, your deepest fears, your fantasies, your dreams and everything about you and know that it is safe with them.

before i start sounding like a hallmark card, i just think there is an internal radar that pulls you to that person, sometimes against your will, sometimes when it doesnt make sense. I am not sure in reality it would be the same as sacrificing your soul for that person (Bella) but it has to be somewhere up there.

i am not sure i will ever be able to define "the one" but i am a hopeless romantic, i am pretty certain the concept exists!

Who am i

I was avidly stalking several blogs last night and if anyone has done that they know that once you start, you cant stop. Each blog links you to another and the cycle goes on and on. Anyway the point is I got exposed to so many people’s thoughts such that I swear by the time I finished I had their voices buzzing in my head, all at the same time. (((creepy))) And in a way it made me start to wonder what my own thoughts were, on several things, life, relationships, fashion, traveling, movies, music, EVERYTHING. But I thought before I overwhelm myself, I decided to take a leaf (or is it an icon) from my girl Kookie’s (page) and write about who I am.

For a while I rode on the waves of what I thought people thought I was (does that make sense?) as in I let people’s expectations of me determine my behavior and my judgment. I was molded on my perceived opinion of people on me. As much as I love my folks, I just think they worked too hard to make me a model child. Don’t get me wrong, I am grateful coz it kept me out of a lot of trouble that I am better off without but at the same time, I wish I had made some of my own mistakes. So for the better part of my growing up I lived into that mould, I was always too afraid to step out of the line, I never developed wings for adventure. I had an iron clad conscience that made sure I was never tempted to bend the rules (pathetic I know we are not even taking breaking them here, just bending)

So now I am in my late twenties, and finally it dawns on me that I am my own person. That I can make decision for my own gratification and worry about the consequences later. I have the power to make my own mistakes, and learn from them and move on. I have the ability to know what’s good for me and what is not and still go ahead and do either. I have learnt which relationships are important and which ones to discard and never look back. And all that has made me into a confident, self assured person. It has made me face the world with a headstrong determination that after all is said and done; I can only be who I am and noone else. And most importantly I know better now, I will not bring my son up to be who I grew up as, with the crippling fear of the unknown which resulted me in never learning how to ride a bike, or how to swim. I shall teach him to seize life by the horns, and find who he really is, all on his own.

I can say now at the ripe, mature age of 27, I finally know who I am.

Untitled

So when we meet, pretend you are doing fine
Pretend that your heart is not broken
Smile and hold your head high
And pretend you are not about to crumble
And that your arms are not aching to hold me
Because that’s what I will do.

So when you see me, pretend I am just another girl
A person you are meeting on the street
Say hi and ask how I am doing
But don’t expect me to tell you the truth
Just nod at whatever I tell you
That I am fabulous and doing great
Though we both know that’s far from the truth.

So when we sit together
Pretend my presence doesn’t affect you
And act like you don’t miss kissing me
And that hearing my voice is just one of these things
Act like the moments we shared didn’t mean that much
For my sake, please do that
As that’s the only way we will get through this

short randomness

I just realized that I am reluctant to visit the dentist. Now this ordinarily would not make headline news, but you see my reason for reluctance is not the usual, fear of pain or whatever. But for me the reluctance is akin to the one I have to visit the gynae. There is something about having someone poking in there, judging me about my hygienic tendencies and possibly seeing who what I had done with my mouth. Its just disconcerting that’s all, there I have said it.

Hi name is Enchante, I am mum to a Cbeebaholic

A friend of mine recently asked why I never blog about my baby, and my response was that this blog is really about me and mostly me, so I never get the others roped in. but today I just had to write a post about this incredible, three and a half year old, 95cm tall living organism crammed full of energy who I happened to carry in my womb for all of 38 weeks, amazing. I always marvel at how God chose me to assist Him in bringing forth this amazing little creature. Anyway one of its characteristics is that, at 630 am, before I am even fully awake, it is at my door asking for “something”. Now this is not some code from the planet that they must come from, it is simply a way of telling me that wake up and give me some candy. Now before y’all go off at me about bad parenting, I do not actually give out any candy (most days) but this was just to demonstrate that when you are all waking up busy thinking about your day ahead, my little man just has one thing on his mind, candy.

Now the most interesting characteristic of the marvelous specie is that, at 7pm when you are anxious to watch Prime time News, he has the remote firmly clutched in his hand and declaring that we are all going to watch cartoons. Now if we are all to be honest, there is a little child inside of every one of us which never grew up and secretly enjoys watching Scooby Doo, Looney Toons etc (for old times sake we say), so naturally cartoons at 7pm would not be a catastrophe (most days). In fact I am quite a big fan of Disney Channel and I am not ashamed to say it. However, the challenge we are faced with is my little warrior is particular about the choice of cartoon channel, it has to be the British Children’s channel Cbeebees. Now anyone who has a child, or niece/nephew, cousin or friend’s child, who has had the unfortunate chance to sit through a programme on Cbeebees will know that it is SPECIFICALLY designed for ages 10 and under. In fact it should come with a strong restrictive warning about the age limit. So the little man loves it, singing along to the tunes, jumping up and down and imitating whatever they will be doing. I have to give it some credit though, it has vastly improved his language skills, and its like a revision class for his numbers, shapes, colors etc when he comes from school. However it is absolute torture for any parent to sit through it. so because of all the trauma that parents out there must be going through, I think its only proper that we form a support group and help each other through the worst years.

Hi I am Enchante, I am mum to a Cbeebaholic…….

somebody is in trouble

Somebody is in trouble

thoughts wander and the heart races.
Excitement, giggles like a 14 year old
Its madness, sheer utter madness.
I wake up excited and look forward to the day starting.
I smile to myself as I count the minutes til I can get to that magical place.
A place where just for that moment I can forget who it is I am,
I can forget what it is I have to account for
I can just be…exist…live…float.
I laugh. I smile; I even get some thrilling shivers once in a while.
Its exciting, exhilarating, rejuvenating.

I speak, I tell, I verbalize, I express.
I hear, I listen, I comprehend and sometimes miscomprehend
its part of the charm, the magic, the enchantment.
Its novel, its new, and it shall soon pass I am sure of it.
Once the euphoria is over what will remain is solid, grounded, meaningful.
But while its here I shall enjoy the foolishness of it.

No I am not newly in love, far from it.
I fell in love a while back and I am still very much in love.
I have just been made to feel 16 again,
when crushes I had but dropped them just as fast.

©Enchante

Random musings

Its been gnawing in my head all day today, incessantly as if taunting me. Until I just had to give in, weak I know but believe me I tried to resist. So I gave in and dug deep into the buried recesses of junk and found it. it was almost like I was possessed because once I made the decision to look for it I got some superhuman strength to lift things and excavate it. I say excavate because I had indeed buried it, away from prying eyes and inquisitive hands. Then there it was… I cannot begin to explain the surge my heart did when I felt its cold cover against my hands. With hands trembling with excitement I opened the yellowed pages and breathed in deeply the musty smell of old pages and ink long dried. For a moment I was transfixed, taken back to a time when I was young and carefree. I sat down and started reading, then I couldn’t stop. I read about the feelings that I had 7 or more years ago. It felt foreign at first as if I was reading about someone else, but the more I read the more the memories came flooding back. And I was there back in the moment and I knew exactly what had been happened. For a moment I felt a stab of guilt at reliving old feelings, as if I am betraying my current trusts. But there has to be a reason why I have held on to an old scrapbook/diary for the last eleven years, when I feel like I am no longer sure of the direction that I am navigating this ship of my life, I always refer back to it for a campus. It helps me keep grounded. It reminds me of whom I set out to be, a fact which sometimes the cares of this world make me forget. Maybe I am just trying to hold on to my past, refusing to grow up. But there are time when what we think is being grown up is actually losing sight of who we are in the first place. So I read and read and I recognized familiar emotions. I got in touch with that girl that I was. In fact it’s the best thing that I have done all weekend, and I am grateful that I have my yellowed, dusty book to take me down memory lane, to things that my natural memory has left fade in the background. I realized, I started blogging long before I knew how to use the internet!

betrayal

My heart pounds, like the rhythmic sound of the pestle as it hits the mortar
Blood rushes through my ears, like a burst sewer pipe in the streets of Harare
I lose my balance a bit, my equilibrium is definitely not what is should be
I wait for the anger to kick in, nothing
I wait for the tears to start stinging at my eyelids, nothing
My tear ducts appear to have gone on hiatus on me
All I feel is the dry, numbing, excruciating pain…
I imagine looking into my chest and seeing my heart shatter…
The fragments noiselessly falling to collect at the bottom of my stomach
I need to go; I need to get out,
Out of this body and away from the piercing pain that threatens to suffocate me.
I have to remember how to breathe; 30 seconds have gone past without a grain of air being expelled from my lungs
I need to run, to shake it off.
But my eyes go blank, darkness engulfs me
No I do not swoon, but the eye of my mind shuts down on it own volition
The agony is too much for it to continue watching
I feel my legs giving way, and I stumble to find a place to sit
I have tasted betrayal’s vile, foul-smelling palate in my mouth,
Wake me up when it’s over.