I’d write a whole novel down just to describe you, but it’s not worth it because you’re more than just words and a cover page. You are a whole universe in one body and just few people can read that, you don’t need words to be described , paragraphs and commas are all traced in your body. Your stories all lined out on your skin covered in scars and marks, each representing a story which once occurred.

These sentences won’t be enough to type down because every word you’ve uttered has come from the innermost honest and rare place. That your soul speaks volumes that only the moon and the stars can bear with, but you’re so good at it you need no trainer for Perfection. The fullstops I’d use remind me of the days you almost gave up but look at you now, moving on ,forward because you never stop for anyone not Even your own instincts and that keeps you alive most days.

When everyone is tired and done with the day and all they want to do is rest, you stick behind waiting for the rare moments of the night and day that only you get to see, rather understand. The smile he wore today for the first time in 19 days, the favorite color she wore to school since her friend’s burial, the tears behind fake smiles, the cracked anger in happy faces and the presence of solitude in a multitude of people.

Observant is his favorite hobby, silence is hers but not even their best friends can define them. Beneath the silence and happy moments in life there is more to life for them than just the usual and the norm. Most days it’s about the sunsets, sunrises, stars, moon, the insane colors they see every day in the sky, the smell of rain on dry land, or the touch of the first light at 5:26 am. Between busy days there are little, small parts that happen ,the sight of their loved ones and in a blink their moods are everywhere, that they cry in the slightest headache, because they feel the forces surrounding them are more than others.

So, words aren’t enough to describe you, because you are complicated in the most
vulnerable way, an old book seated waiting for anyone who has the courage to pick it up and read it to come along, but again in its old pages it doesn’t care if anyone will come forth to pick it or not or if it will sit there for a hundred years because beneath its pages, there is life going on ,heartbreaks, priceless moments and people walking around, clearly it does not require validation from anyone yet its comfortable is just the way it is.

Its cover page is dusty as hell but only a few know that diamonds and gold are not found out in the open, “the wise, will notice me in a second” it says. When people are praying for miracles, she’s living in one and only allows a few people know the real her because it took ages to rebuild her world from ashes and tiny pebbles to great walls and now the lazy are complaining why the wall was built so damn tall and solid, but you get me right? I’m talking about the one in a hundred kinds of people. Walking besides us every day to work, laughing the loudest in the room to tears, and cry’s a river when saddened.

Most days you’re made of all the places you’ve been to, and all the people you’ve ever loved, together with the experiences life has offered to show you. Because confidently this is you, that every piece and part is all somewhere in you making you who you are. They just had to leave a mark huh! The songs you hear too, keeping the best version of your happiness to yourself because wolves out here are ready to throw dirt and hate whenever. But all this is you, and I know you don’t deserve paragraphs either but with a novel people will read and know everything, sometimes the secret is well trusted just by you. Only the brave will read you, because with or without the commas and fullstops, you’re surprisingly still wholly.

By Vivian khanyanji

3 thoughts on “Not a novel

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