Sleep never quite touches my need for it. The waking day never quite brings me the bliss I long for. I feel totally at capacity, even though I'm "doing" very little, and when I drop into the depths of me to ask, "What's going on?" the answer that comes, consistently, every single time...

"Just write, Yana"

I have to write daily, now. The anger in my body says so. It's about the only thing that will keep me in health because it's about the only thing I'm actually here to do.

It's been rough since I last posted to the Daily Dzedze. In the gorgeous apartment by the Durban ocean we all came down with covid. Nyaniso took the lead, sporting a high temperature and headache. By the time Mama and I started to show symptoms, it was time to pack up the car and drive the long road back to Johannesburg. I was hot, and then cold, and then hot again. I vomited in bathrooms along the highway and tried with all might to feed our fast-growing baby with the little milk I had for her.

I thank the heavens our daughter didn't show symptoms. She was a trooper. The journey was over eight hours and for the most part she was a chirpy child. It's been a week since we arrived home and most of my days have been made of recovering and doing all I can to bring milk and strength back to my body, I miss the days that I dripped uncontrollably. I miss that abundance.

Anger raids me. Usually I hear the anger-beast as one who says, "You've reached your threshold." It invites me to ponder which facet of my life has been maxed out. This time it feels different though. As though my very existence is entirely off-track. As though I'm walking in the opposite direction to where I wish to be, convinced it's some kind of short-cut in the long run.

I've been doing a lot of internal work around endurance. I have a high stamina for internal discomfort, and it's had me sitting in many blessed soul-fires over the years, but my tolerance for my own bullshit is wearing weak now and I don't wish to endure life anymore. I long to sip upon the simplicities and let my nervous system settle. I wish to welcome more love in and feel what it is to master my own emotional pleasure...

Words will take me there. There's a process I experience when I write. One of seeking. The sun shines upon my cheeks as I walk a residential path in the UK. To the right of me, honeysuckle smiles, purple and pink. I let my fingers dance and decide which to pick. Chose my flower, greet it with a hello and pluck. Place the stem to my lips and suck. A faerie-sized amount of sweetness kisses my tongue and I revel in nature's gift. Words are satisfying to me like that. The dance across them all, the summoning of my one and the little hit of happiness I receive when the right word tumbles to the page.

Already this is catharsis and I can feel the honeysuckle in typing again. My heart eases. Tears move closer to my eyes and I commit to a new chapter now. One as a wordsmith. I will empty my fingertips into this space daily. Even if one sentence is all I have to give. Because anger told me I have to now, I have to write.