- Epifania Amoo-Adare
I felt sorry for myself - a sorrow - at being able to clutch at the proverbial straws, making out that this life had a point at all. I listened to them tell those tales that I had regularly reeled off - griot style. Those acts of faith by those who reject the accuracy of religious opium but yet share the sentiment exactly. Life requires a reasoning, a rationale that defies all reason, a way of making the self believe that its repetitive motion is not just much of the same muchness, but rather an endurance in pain for nirvana.
And what of this nirvana? It’s nothing but another sub-stratum of more of the same.
You see, the series reflect each other in the requirement of mindless repetition; it’s just the scenery that changes. So, on that slave-trade boat was a sense of despair, a need to jump off the merry-go-round and its heartwrenching—yet monotonous—tonal structures. On that boat, was a social interaction: a sharing of pain and joy, the re-telling of that tale - griot style. Indicating that you were not alone in this crisis of faith.
There is always a reason for this madness, it is the madness itself.
Now, it’s London, 20th century, and the sub-stratum is of course the change, for we have moved on indeed to re-tell - griot style - the same mystical notion of nirvana. There is a point you know, although it is always needlessly pointless.
I want it to stop: Let me off! Let me swing from my rope or slice my wrists to purge the body of its mean spirit. Perhaps it’s simply a question of stepping into oncoming traffic or jumping from five floors, or more, onto civilisation’s pavement—cracked, with dogshit smears and so on. But whatever it is, it must be clean—a clean break, no lingering on, no trailing off into cripple-doom or ‘life’ support machinery.
“It’s the easy way,” they all reply; to struggle is the true act of determination. And the tale gets retold - griot style.
I feel the real ease is to keep on keeping on, that way a decision is never made, a focus is never sought. We are just shifting and changing to accommodate the regular comprise.
I had been crying a lot lately, feeling a weariness of spirit, being “sick and tired of being sick and tired,” letting the toxic wastes out in my water and snot, seeing a crying in my belly, being scared of my own shadow itself, having killed the inner child, and all I long for is the strength of will to hop off the moving centrifuge, at a tangent. I am hoping that my notions of re-incarnation are just that, false notions.
But the finality of such a move-on, is too great for this cynical-optimist. Or is it the odds? What are the chances of yet another near miss, of yet another inability to achieve even death—so I can go beyond the mindless (needless to say) repetition.
I had a crisis in faith: born alone, live alone, die alone. Social interaction is always there, till you actually need it and, then, everyone just misses the point; they are willing to lie - griot style. They lie to keep you alive for their own sake: for Sanity. Because to let one of us go, in truth, is to question existence itself; it’s to realise that all we do is dance an elaborate ritual of death-in-life, while soothing the weary soul in a connivance to keep - keep hope alive.
It’s not hope that requires resuscitation, for it snowballs into its own action. It’s we who just need to decide.
Some of us like that busy bee, go about our daily lives in ignorance—just doing what comes naturally. I envy those blinkards, because once you have seen what it is to question our reality of base measures, you cannot stop seeing. Others may think it’s a question of who you love, being with them, basking in aberrations of more (monogamous) monotony. But again, it is that talk - griot style. They presume that a consumption of each other’s desires can compensate for a spiritual void, which is insatiable. But then you realise that all these things like love, god, money, science (it is an endless list), are just temporary occupiers of a wound that will not be healed—as “sore” is its name and, thus, its nature.
And so, I lie on the bedroom floor in a man’s bathrobe, pouring myself onto these pages, as there is no one left to tell this tale - griot style. Also, being tired of hearing myself re-peated by all in this crisis of faith. I pour onto these pages knowing it is the easy route that I must once again take: drugging my senses into euphoria, high on the tale of our existence.
Series - rewind and replay, rewind and replay.
In this way, each day will pour in self-same style, until one time—for that's all it takes, yes, that one time, I may just be determined enough to make that decant. Letting it all go, refusing to be a part of the re-telling of myth - griot style.
Making it final(ly).