Rambling...1

I had this headache today for a good 8 hours. I have no legit explanations for the cause of this headache but it helped me to sought ought a lot.

Maybe this headache was as a result of the excess of noise that I have been dancing to for quite some time. It’s amazing how we’re always unaware of the dizziness in the moment; never really know when we’ve taken it a bit too far. It’s unnerving that we’re so often out of our element that we never really know when we’re addicted to malice.

I have been wearing my aversions like a good suit on a bad day for weeks now. Painted it in pretty colours and called it me. It really is unsettling that we could be so ugly internally and not be aware of it or not care to fix it.

Justifying your aversions doesn’t make you righteous, you’re still a hater.

It’s important to nurture whatever it is that grants you peace in your day!

You’re lovely my dear!

You’re lovely!

~Kerry-Ann 

― Hermann Hesse, Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

Most days I feel lost paralleled with an indescribable emptiness 

Reconstruction.

It annoys me that the ones you love the most are so often oblivious to the hurt that they cause you. They can rip your heart out with some of the statements and acts they give life to, without much thought and I’ve never found this quite fair. This is not love. Love is not an interest vested on a one way street where the wind blows north and nowhere else. Love is not a silent heartache or a silent voice. Love is not a “I’ll be here for you, but only sometimes.” kinda thing.

Maybe it’s the way we were raised. The way our heart beats have been synchronized with conformity or maybe it’s the impish whisper of a lie that we can’t change much. And so we relegate our opinions, beliefs and souls never thinking that it would hurt us or those we love. I’m don’t like having people who don’t say what they feel around me. Logging around feelings won’t get you anywhere nor will it have you standing any closer to freedom.

Too many people have disrespected me and I’ve let it slide and I’m learning that doing so is not okay. It is important to say what you feel. Free yourself from the heaviness. Until we do so, until we are free, I think we’ll continue to be prostitutes, always used and discarded without regard for our feelings.

 Love and Freedom to you always

~Kerry-Ann Davis

 

Mind Your Soul

I’ve come to realize, whenever you stop trying to be the best you you can possibly be, a silent evil begins to drag your soul in a direction it wishes not to go. Then, you inevitably become the worst you you’ve ever been. A you that feels good at the heart of crowds but not so much in silence. Maybe some of us have the misconception that life isn’t about struggle, maybe somebody lied to us along the lines and offered that life is supposed to be a saunter, maybe we bought into that too easily.

Most of our lives are synonymous with grief, pain, hardships, heartbreaks, struggle and rocks. These insidious realities and more begin to habour our ugliness and confusion whenever we turn a blind eye to them. The reality is that our lives equate to a BUNCH of ugliness embellished with a FEW joys here and there. The trick is to lend enough time to these pains, as much as they deserve, nothing more nothing less. I think when you continue to dwell on this pain it then becomes surplus and no longer has a purpose.

So promise yourself that you won’t give too much of yourself to things that don’t deserve it. Promise to feel everything that comes your way with all your heart, to give it the time it deserves, nothing more, nothing less. Tell me how much more beautiful your life becomes.

Love for that heart of yours

Light for that spirit of yours

Freedom for that soul of yours

~Kerry-Ann Davis

Back to pen and paper

Truth is he nor she knows what the fuck they’re proclaiming.

On nights like this these they go to sleep heart on sleeve, tears settled in ocean deep eye sockets, feet weary , skin worn and hearts that have been holding prayers together for years now, shaky

They fall asleep just as confused as everybody else.

She falls asleep just as confused as everybody else.

The scent of her black hair lingers in his dreams and he feels sad that he’s won more battles than she has.

He feels guilty that he has a greater resilience than she has.

She,

She stills struggles to hide her scars

She goes to him for advice sometimes.

His words never quite seem to offer the right kind of hugs

Poor thing,

He believes he merely stumbled upon victory

He has no great speech to give or shields to lend.

Never really had any freedom songs or war chants,

But he swore on all the blood he swallowed that it had to be for something.

He swore his beloved would never have to bear feet on her back, that her spine would never be crippled by any unspoken slavery.

But she’s bruised in more ways than he can see or comfort

She cries more tears than his words can dry or heal and houses an emptiness too large for physical space.

And all he can tell her is to hold on to her broken prayers.

Build a canoe of words from her broken language and row deep deep deep into his arms.

There, he can't promise her will be paradise,

But at least the demons won’t be as plenty

“Baby,” he’ll tell her,

“Let this proximity fill the emptiness of your jaded heart.

Let us be an army,

Us two broken souls.”

 Kerry-Ann Davis Copyright ©2012

Go out there and swear to this world your oath, not with your words, but with what you do. Not with your hand over your heart, but with your hand outstretched to a world that desperately needs your hand, your help, your insights, your creativity, your honor, your courage. It needs you.

Cory Booker

“Do you know what I think about crying? I think some people have to learn to do it. But once you learn, once you know how to really cry, there's nothing quite like it. I feel sorry for those who don't know the trick. It's like whistling or singing.”
~ Anne Rice, Memnoch the Devil

The soul is born old but grows young. That is the comedy of life. And the body is born young and grows old. That is life's tragedy.
~ Oscar Wilde

Shaking The Dust

•   It’s hilarious when you think of it actually, of how frail and fragile love is. No. Actually it makes me sick to my stomach.
•    Today I saw  a couple of children playing today and I literally burst into tears. It’s so sad, they way they dance when they’re young without even knowing there’s such a thing as the absence of it, then they grow up, only to be broken again and again and again mercilessly by their 'privileged' years. And sometimes they’re broken beyond repair.
•       I’m tired of having my heart broken.
•       I don’t have any more heart to break anymore. No more heart to hate. No more heart to care.

(In need of so much repair)

~Kerry-Ann