I’m not putting blame on my age. This age is just a page in my life and hopefully my life ends like Prince Charming’s and harming myself won’t be an issue that I regard as escaping my age and its uncertainties. Negotiating daily with myself as I pursue the unseen trying to refine myself, while getting a hefty fine of packing my life in a restricted area.

I’m in a different class, my bill is in verbal assaults my ears between my hands, a pose I seem to strike at my head, while I block out your verdicts about my life. Cause this is just a page and my life’s image shouldn’t be one image like political figures that are deceased. As I write to liberate and inspire to be a doctor, accountant, psychotherapist – so this many dimensions of my life shouldn’t be displayed by one page in the book of my life like a famous artist only remembered through one portrait. As this is just an age in my life, one page in a chapter full of the unknown, and I as the writer aiming to write something that makes me smile while I reflect my day through my daily diary.

Cause this age might be the age where my life makes no sense and my presence has no defence. My feelings having no stage to express themselves, as all lies in rampage being what? I reside on and in my disadvantage having an advantage over me, but you now know that it’s just an age and like any, I shall mature as this life is like wine and with time it becomes fine – this sour taste a passing face like the coming of an end of this paragraph.

Sectioned to serving my life in corridors of mental slavery, pale coloured walls with dripping thoughts covered in restless tactless actions which are mandatory, tying my straying thoughts that are sniffing with inquisition baffling to their findings as I’m in a hazy state, depressants, said to help me along as I keep too close to my chest.

The only time I utter a word being when I wail, with screaming eyes that are over flooded by torturous flashes of images of which I had depicted as a child, now my captor. As I slave to its realisation, with scornful feet that fit not in my shoes, blinded by events that left me gasping for air as if I was suffocated. Now feeling my way with aching hand nerves as I wrote and write to make sense of my life.

Having a shaking body as if I was under attack by a quake or epileptic by nature, my growing fear overpowering my cell’s strength, feeling them becoming extinct as I weaken and find myself walking in a tight passage, road, bridge leading into town – deserting my heart’s longing, making a life that I curse myself by daily as I scrap cow dung and every field I step on as my way forward.

Wondering with disbelief and lack of trust if I shall arrive at my destiny with full potential, and if potency to fulfil the act will be there as arriving at my destination with no ripe full soil ready to plough my ambition to grow on, leaves. Me troubled like a woman in mourning, as the only equipment I’m equipped with is my body that lies in a ragged state and waking up in the early hours of the morning an act I can’t commit to – as the joints of my body are cranky and worn out from the heavy duty lifting that I embedded it with of which was a duty that’s I served with detest, to pass a test that shows if I’m an underlying or upper lying in this equation and time of life.

Confessing my sins to myself with the belief that, to repent would deliver me from my lifeless adventures that leave me ducking like a poacher, while I’m smeared with deviousness and unthought-of through actions that are now evidence of my incarceration. Searching for an evident future that is playing hide and seek not knowing where my life is headlined to skeletons in my closet, as every day in my life is Halloween and my dinner table is decked with ghosts from the past that come to life as if we are in the living room, conversations that boil up and leave me faint with hallucinations this being my confessions talking the truth like I have my hand on the bible, while hoping I don’t have a rifle pointed to my head.