HIS name is Byron Rushwaya. He carries the wisdom of an old man and the spirit of a young one. His expressions are his own, a testament to his individuality. He believes that the purest way to access one's individuality is through these expressions. Confidence in his identity comes from comfortably using the ways that have become part of his essence to express himself.
Words, to him, are like a powerful wind, announcing his presence and his beliefs about his place in his own heart, the hearts of others, and the heart of the world. He uses this wind, formed from his mind and heart, to speak about what he is sure of, what he is conflicted about, what he wants to be, and what he used to be.
He travels through time, exploring his thoughts and feelings, on his beautiful individual journey around the sun. This journey helps him better understand his relationship with humanity and, most importantly, his relationship with God.
So, listen to his words. They are the words of a man, both young and old, who is constantly trying to reach deeper into the wilderness. After all, what is life if not the exploration of its breadths and lengths?
Solace
Byron Rushwaya
The wind does not speak it shouts tonight
And still sinks in the heavy dances of the rain
The lightning and thunder remind me that their presence is present as well
And I lay on my bed, these chains on me, these boulders on my back, life on me
Is this what Samson felt?
I'm not a god..no i do not offer services to mankind but like a god I feel out of time and unlike a god....I am bound by limitations
The wind shouts at the doors and windows
Mother nature is ever dominant and fair,constant and always a remainder of...
My left eye mischievously looks around the room with my right joining in ... a couple
Everything is itself tonight
My body is being pulled by the weight and the weightless
"Hi"
My left eye wakes up again
"Hi"
My eyes hunt for the prey behind the voice
"You have arrived at your destination" speaks the voice, no semblance of form
I see myself at the throes of the past
My past self in the present
Good evening Byron, and the strange voice fully transforms into an old friend
Death has always chased me
From my first sound as an infant
To my slow and tired steps as a child of life
Moving through the hills of despair
Through the temporary rivers of joy I wanted to get rid of myself; I was tired of myself
But at the same time I wanted to try
So the world could peel away my supposed weakness
A cry to be escorted and maybe I wanted life after all
And when I thought about future me
I saw death on a throne in the corner, stretching her hand
Out of space, out of time,
Out of my full understanding
And more alive and powerful than all forms
And here I stand before you Byron, behind you but not out of you
Here to guide you to the door we have been constructing after the first storm,that weak storm
To take you to the promised land
Good evening Byron
I hear a strange but familiar voice
The rain increases in dance
Will my mind survive the storm raging outside and inside in these walls?
And the wind embraces silence
Good evening my present, this is you ... me.
The wind, the rain, the lightning and thunder ... the traces of life speak loudest tonight don't they?
And yet somehow they will be less loud and even quiet when it's time
That is time throwing the loudness and permanence of its voice to us
And just like the storm outside, the storm inside ... the storm that has ravaged you and left you for dead
That storm shall be quiet too
Hear me speak Byron, hear my hope
We stand on fragments of poorly exercised hope ... let us flex its muscles
We have fallen into the arms of death ... let us walk
Let us walk with canes towards living
The wind returns, louder and more arrogant
But ... before the world can burn an offering of love to us
Entertain the construction of a table for us by us
Entertain,in small quantities the idea of life and how it takes precedence before the death march
Entertain why that is.
And our journey shall begin, in small but mighty steps, mighty steps, necessary steps, indispensable steps
Peace before we display violence on the land set by your past version, the land you inhabit
Peace to every leak in your brain
Let us say our grace before we eat the supposed permanent residence of your darkness
Let us invite others to the table...they will show us better glasses we can see through
Let us invite life
How long has the storm been shouting during the conversations?
It has aged and seems to be on the bed of its death
We are both about to take our final breaths
But on different sides of life
My ears and eyes move with stronger attention only to meet nature and the man-made
The departure of the guests has escaped my presence
The storm and me are left
Hope, hope, hope
My eyes see hope, my ears hear hope.
Do they know? I have the power to let them know, and I shall exercise it
I move to the window, these chains heavier than imagined
Hope, hope, hope
Shall I start a choir with these words?
I gently smile at the thought of that
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