A Random Bruise.

(on the hand of memory and the repute of November)

hello, friends. i don’t have much to say, except thank you to those who’ve purchased my poetry book and the rest of you for simply being here. i’m indebted to you all and return the energy you’ve put into me with abundant love and adoration.

don’t miss the media recommendations below <3

---

recently, i discovered a random bruise near my elbow. for nights, i went to bed unsure of the pain in my arm. given everything else i was going through, i dismissed it—until four days ago, when i decided enough was enough. the shallow ache needed tending to. an inconspicuous dark brown patch nestled above my bony elbow caught my attention, a revelation courtesy of the kitchen light reflecting off my skin. in the haze of exhaustion, a shadow of depression, and deep confusion, i paused to wonder how it came to be. did i smack my arm against the shower door? had i been too abrasive lifting books from the floor? or was this bruise something that hadn’t happened in the physical, a silent manifestation revealing itself in flesh?

memory can be treacherous for all the right reasons, giving breath to our experiences in ways the present cannot. after being unwell throughout November- silently, so as not to alarm those around me- i realised my body was remembering. the ghost of last November hung over my shoulders like a tattered blanket, offering little comfort.

as my fingers traced the bruise, my thoughts wandered to how much sleep i’d lost last November, to the bed that silence made for me; a resting place for the living. it all felt terrifyingly personal. the faces of those i had loved rushed back in shades of grey and red, lit ablaze by nostalgia’s fleeting ability to shift at will. it took eighteen days of this November to understand the pain in my spine, the random flares of anxiety in my chest, the sleepless nights, and the ache near my elbow. these were physical echoes of last November. my body recognised the season we were in, and for a moment, i think it was frightened at the thought of us returning to that place: needing therapy more frequently, seeing pity on my loved ones’ faces, enduring the torment of someone else’s words sinking into my chest, the betrayal, the utter nakedness. my body stood on the edge, bracing for impact.

but this isn’t meant to be bleak. not entirely. recognising it brought me peace, a calm that washed over my spirit. the love my body showed me was unparalleled. it knew what home meant: shielding me from reliving the things we’d survived. this understanding changed how i saw November. it has always been a month of deep resonance for me, a stage on which my life unfolds. ego-deaths, depressions, powerful kinships, and even this newsletter were born in November. i launched my book this month. i’ve experienced the kindness of strangers in November crevices. the fog always comes—sometimes lifting, other times lingering, but always present. and each time, i welcome it.

there is something profound about having a checkpoint in the year. of having a time that reminds me of everything. the beauty is, i don’t need to do anything with these memories. i can simply recognise them and feel grateful for this strangely non-linear way of revisiting them.

there’s a song i love, Run That Body Down by Paul Simon. in it, he documents the calamity of knowing your body is speaking but understanding that sometimes, the conversation isn’t about responding, it’s about listening. not everything has a solution. and anyway, what am i to do with all the trauma? surely not exorcise it with breathing techniques or a Viktor Frankl journal. sometimes, it’s enough to recognise the fear, to feel run down, until i can’t anymore.

as i write this, i feel more liberated than i have in weeks. by letting it be, i’ve found sanctuary in the present. journaling my fears felt like flipping a switch too. each day, my spine straightens a little more. sunshine hits my face violently and i live for it. the knots in my shoulders still appear, though not as bold. even the desire to sleep comes like a blessing from God.

the bruise is healing. she’s still there (stubborn as ever) but not as painful. everything is okay. i’m okay, even when i’m scared. i’m okay, even when i’m hurt or anguished by how those who’ve wronged me continue to thrive. i’m okay, even when i’m unfair and have to check myself. i’m okay, even when a random bruise refuses to tell me where she came from. i’m okay.

and you are too, dear friend.

yours,

Thando. x

🎵:

Wealth - Talk Talk

Run That Body Down - Paul Simon

The Wilhelm Scream - Tom Misch (Quarantine Sessions)

🎞️:

When You Finish Saving The World by Jesse Eisenberg