Watching,Waiting

If these walls could talk,oh the stories they would tell. However,as it stands, they only serve as a reminder of my entrapment. When people talk about depression they always take care to mention the sadness and struggle in performing the most mundane of tasks. They speak of drifting further away from their friends and family like black plastic polythene papers tarnishing our azure skies before landing in a once-clean river. They speak of self harm and feelings of worthlessness. What they fail to mention is the rage. This rage is what I have come to refer to as a "Rage against the Machine". In this case The Machine refers to all the existing systems and mores set in place by society that do not seem to accommodate the mentally ill. Everyone is too busy to hear the cry for help and acceptance though those walls appear to be crumbling bit by bit.

 There is a bridge over Mbagathi Road that is connected to the Riara University. This bridge speaks to me in its dog droppings and filth and the madman that has made it his home. He marches up and down the bridge speaking to himself and receiving looks of disgust from passersby. Sometimes,the threadbare clothes he wears can barely cover his private parts. I am in no way near as lost as he is but I believe that I do identify with him. I have crossed that bridge,looked over the edge at the traffic jam crawling towards Kenyatta Market and wondered what it would be like if we both jumped over the edge. I have never pondered deeply on this desire as it is oftentimes a passing thought but I cannot help wondering if he actually goes ahead to do it and succeeds. How many people would care that he is lying with a broken spine at the bottom of the bridge; cars crushing him to a bloody pulp like a stray cat's corpse?

I took a sabbatical(if you could call it that) from school because I could not cope with the schedules.exams and social interactions. I am currently working on a novel,have joined a beta reading group, explored this country and attempted to connect with God by joining a local club. I count these as achievements to some extent but when I am alone in my room I cannot help wondering if perhaps I am living a lie and it would be more beneficial to be in school; keep your nose pressed to the grindstone until its grated right off but at least you get a degree. For now I continue to watch and wait: like Mary for Jesus or a pastoralist for the rain in the Kenyan plains.

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