Daily prompt: Perspective

Ever since I got today’s prompt, I have been in deep thought. Trying hard to honestly say out what I find repulsing and what takes the cup as the one thing I love hence makes me happy. I thought to myself ‘what a strange predicament’ since I thought I knew me better than the rest of the world. Upon reading blogs from my favourites though, I had a light bulb moment ( a picture posted on Pushing on a Rope) and I knew what had taken me the entire afternoon to figure out.

photo by Terri Vanech and she blogs at 'Pushing on a Rope' http://pushingonarope.com

photo by Terri Vanech and she blogs at ‘Pushing on a Rope’ http://pushingonarope.com

I saw the tree towering above the small bench and remembered how I hated feeling small. I hate it when I feel so small as it robes me off my self-believe. More so if the subject shuttering my confidence is rubbing on its might over mine. Sadly, a story to match my conviction is something very recent hence can not claim to have forgotten  it for a demo.

Today, on a spur of the moment trip to our neighbouring country, I felt irritated that most of the assistants in the different shops we visited in the mall were playing the mightier than thou saga. They were selfish enough to remind us we were just passer-bys when they refused to speak in a language  all parties would understand and stuck to their own. I felt so fumed up I almost exploded with anger.

I mean, who was the customer here? Were they aware that we were the reason they got paid hence the very vehicle that brings home their butter and cheese? I felt so belittled! Mind you, I could understand their language, but the fact that I was with people who did not know Jack about the Lingui I felt angry on their state and did not think they deserved my compromise. It would be like writing using my mother tongue yet my aim is to improve my English and to get input from across the globe!

My loved ones. They are my happy place and thought. When things go wrong by taking an ugly turn, I simply go withdraw some loving from my emotional bank and feed off it. It never fails. I know, for instance, that when feeling like life’s challenges are threatening to over haul me and belittling my efforts I simply think of how that would add-on or taint my daughters image of  me; MUM ( Magnificent Unstoppable Martyr). So, yes, it does help make me feel better but my perspective on the matter still lives.

My people are still the most hospitable I deduce and know they would never make an outsider feel lost. What was I thinking, we are a nation build of many clans and races and are the true rainbow nation unlike the supposed one  which I will not name but will just pray God lead it through a true introspect and change.

About ferwam

I am a passionate aspiring writer who is taking baby steps to realise her dream. Though like a baby, its given I will stumble and fall, I wish to stand up and continue with my journey and encourage you all to take part in this dream.
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7 Responses to Daily prompt: Perspective

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  7. Reblogged this on leopardofshadows and commented:
    I want you to picture yourself standing in a long deserted playground. It has become decrepit with time. Now take a step further and put yourself within the person your mind has portrayed as your body. You are not looking at yourself looking around. You are actually staring out of the eyes of your imagination.

    Now look around you. The grass is unkempt. It is long and yellow except in the places where there is sand poured. In those places the grass is scarce. Only a few shoots stick up here and there. Likewise they are discoloured and almost entirely dead.

    You see swings. You see Monkey bars. A slide and a merry-go-round. Some massive half buried tires. Then the hill with a long dead, ancient, Whispering Willow at the top of it. The paint on the metals of the forgotten playthings is faded. It is chipped and well worn away. Rust is thriving in the joints corners and bends of the steel. One thing is painfully obvious. Children once played here. Once but long ago!

    Now is when another of your senses opens up to you. You see leaves that are yellow, orange and red. Some seasoned many years and some but few. They are blowing to and then fro. I want you to hear the wind and the rustle of the leaves. A dilapidated chain link fence keeps the leaves from escaping. Like the toys and rides it has fallen victim to the elements. Weapons wielded by time.

    The swings creak as they are rocked back and forth in the breeze. Except for one that is broken and hangs from but one of it’s chains. The opposing end of the seat touches the ground. This one spins for half a turn when it gusts. Then back again when it stills. The other metal tether has been spun up around the crossbar. Only the last few links were left to hang down.

    All of these colours and sounds blend together amidst your senses. The long grass whispers as it sways. Rippling like the golden bristles of a vast broom. The leaves rustle as they swirl in an array of yellows, red and orange. The rusted metals squeak and clang in an array of drab pinks and blues. So faded now that the dirty irons, coppery, browns show through. But there is still more to see. Things to hear. Perhaps you will even feel what you are imagining? Though not in the sensory way one feels a touch or a kiss.

    The old willow that crowns the hill moans like an angry ghost in the breeze. You turn towards its mourning cry. Your mind registers the hill and how the children had likely played upon it much. Suddenly both upon and around the hill the grass is green. The sun seems to place its brightest beams upon it.

    A large boy appears by the willow and yells, “I’m the King of this castle and your all dirty rascals!” in a singsong sort of chant. Some other boys are sitting in Ol’Willows branches and one of them calls out to the boy, “Don’t let anybody else come up the hill. If they do tumble them back down okay?” and all the boys laugh.

    A little red haired girl with pigtails is at the bottom of the hill crying. She yells up at the boy, but their substance fades. So does her voice with the dimming of the sun. What you here sounds like it is far away. The hill is shadowed again and you realize you were just told a story from Ol’Mr.Willow.

    The clouds are gathering far off on the horizon. Advancing upon the hill and the Whispering willow tree where the scene you just envisioned appeared. Just as quickly it faded away. The tree is dead and could no longer support children in its branches. If they would even come into this graveyard of memories to play. The wind is strong but warm. It runs its fingers through your hair. Mussing it up in an almost paternal way. You turn and see something blindingly bright. It is an arm of the merry-go-round reflecting the light of the sun. A Rainbow of prisms. You walk over and put your hand upon it.

    Can you feel it? How the metal was warmed by the sun? No you can’t! But you could feel the nostalgia!

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