Last Call.

(a change in weather and other personal developments)

last night, i grew a fresh hand to write with. what a sight it was to behold: somewhat taut and perpendicular in its existence, sincerely unashamed to exist boldly. skin had been shed—just a minute in years of constant change. i grew a fresh hand, and my lips are soon to follow. it is a new day.

after what i’d consider four months of liminal hell, i’ve found routine in simply rising. a lot happened during this waiting, though i’d like to speak to one specific and likely sweeping revelation: i am different. between now and the end of March, something has developed within me that i’ve lacked the language to name. it was a challenge to give breadth to this difference, as if the age of plainly said truths would not allow me to testify yet, perhaps because the journey required much more of my presence at the time. while sitting in bed, phone slack in hand, i realised that i had outgrown myself. there were images that came to mind: me, playing an acoustic guitar, swimming in Sabie, obsessing over the documentaries i would record—these came and passed without a beat. it didn’t feel as though i lost interest in those desires and hobbies, but rather, that i had grown beyond needing them to be everything i ever experienced or felt safe in. enough time and distance from the things i used to (and still do) love had passed, and in that moment, a certainty developed. it knocked me askew because i knew it was true. these things i’ve always adored were no longer the foundation of my existence. i had wholeheartedly outgrown myself, and i needed that space to recognise it was time to reintroduce myself to the world.

i haven’t touched a journal in weeks and haven’t had any desire to. my favourite colour is still all variations of purple, though i’ve grown fond of cornflower and misty blue. it feels like a waking dream when i stare at anything in those shades. there was never a moment when i anticipated change like this: in the colour of my inside walls, or in which hobby would be used to communicate that i am lonely and curious about the way people’s hearts function. or, how deeply unearthed i am by how casual everything is. somewhere along the way, i turned left and only noticed when i paused to drink from the well. i used to know exactly what i was, and now, her and i are sat under the naked tree, wondering together who will arrive next. the sense of urgency i used to carry has fizzled out, and with it, the trivialisation of yesterday and tomorrow being distinctly different. i am different, and everything is similar in a way that i possibly failed to understand a few years ago. what was it Lauryn Hill said? everything is everything…and everything is the same thing except death, which is the unapologetic neutraliser.

this morning i woke up and heard the last call. at the train, i will say goodbye to the one who used to dream violently, to the point of crucifixion. i will mound myself onto her casket and live a fresh dream. i will draw from the journals in my bookshelf and restock our chest with empty ones. i will wait with open arms for the things that change me altogether — things that grab hold of me and turn right, instead. i won’t realise that’s what’s happening until about halfway through that jog in the woods. in fact, i might only see it when i’m with others: basking in a newfound and archaically traditional ignorance, resting on the horns of myself, with a new name.

i am not just love. oh, dear God, i am not just love. there is brimstone under my feet and an unexercised greed in my shoulder, that i will burn through as i walk. my impatience toward others will develop into a garden sanctuary for the grieving anglers to spit on their bait and toss into the fountain: of which i am the cherub, pouring into myself and over the saliva from my hopeful companions.

where i rest, others can too, and we can link our ankles together to lighten the burden and foster safekeeping. you will ask me where i am going with all this, and i will tell you that there is no outcome. always near, always leading me onward. to close this scattered segment, i thought i’d take us back to something i’d written in a time when i was terrified of how change was pushing me:

to borrow a line from Franny Choi, ‘Somewhere, there is a version of myself that isn’t neck-deep in her invented filth’. filth, that was the word. i felt dirty. like a dog, like a little girl. and though i find solace in her words, i see the process of it all to be nautically reminiscent of Ahab, in search of his whale. this anguish has metabolic layers. it requires an energy that contains its own willing capacity to be drained. but do i have it in me? i’m not so sure anymore.

as the oscillation between exhaustion and rage grows dormant, i want to give myself permission to write and then again, not to write. i want to feed cathartically from my emotions but sit idly in them too. this is the best that i can do for myself right now.

- excerpt from Empty Envelopes by Thando Nkosi

that permission i gave myself, i would like to make good on it. as things mutate into a new body, and interest sways north and east, i want to let my writing reflect this growth. despite not knowing all the ways i’ve developed, or what i’ve left behind, i want my writing to show that i am willing to let these things happen. i also want the opportunity not to write, and let that be enough for myself, especially as we see a new person rise from under the covers. it’s strange and exhilarating to see how far away i am from that guilt that used to mutilate my sense of autonomy. but as another me once said: “this is the best that i can do for myself right now.”

yours,

Thando x