Keloid part two

聽I think that I finally wrote聽about them聽the way I wanted. 馃檪

For twenty years, since I became me, Keloids have been part of me. They have grown up with me, strengthen with me, and became indestructible with me. However, for twenty years, I have refused to accept them as part of me. Everyday and every time that I see them, I regard them as unwanted parasites inhabiting my body, feeding on my soul; I considered them unwelcomed rodents that destruct anything that would have been a splendid feature of mine; I see them as a bright orange and tacky objects seating on top of beauty and attracting all unwanted attentions followed by curiosity, a lot of questions. They are not only figuratively and unfashionably disfiguring but they, besides destroying what could have been a beautiful me, generate electrifying pains that live pass their indestructible nest and through the fragile and reluctant heart of mine. It is an annoying feeling to live with something you considered demonically wrong.

I have this theory about what I thought God thought about when he was creating me. For the Keloids, even though it has been said that the chest and shoulders are their common locations, I think (not believe) that god thought through it very well. My theory is that he, the almighty, placed them there to reinforce grace, sophistication and conservation of the self just like I think he, the almighty, didn鈥檛 give me body hair because if he did, I would be the hairiest living being (because I would not care for them 馃檪.)

The sad part聽in all this is, I am sure that, even with all the pain they come with, I would have loved them if they were the fashion.



Victory, I guess, is the idea of winning. Victory is winning without loosing. Some thinks that loosing is sometimes better than winning and is therefore sometimes considered victory. Victory is a word that reminds me of Victorian like the Victorian era or the furniture or sometimes it may reminds me of fans screaming and running around as if they have lost their mind just because of a won soccer game. Victory is when I finally am alone in my room and is able to go under my comforters and sleep for hours. Victory is when I learn something new outside of class scientific or not.


Standard, to me, is the idea of normality. I hate the idea of normality. Who decided what is and what isn鈥檛 normal? How did so many come to agree upon such an idea and therefore endangering their proper future kin? Did they think that perhaps normality may someday be scarce in one of their future descendants?

The idea of normality has been very hard for me to absorb. I contemplate on the issue more than I practice it. I just try to understand how it came about and how so many worship it with all of its endangering flaws.



聽聽聽 recently harvested or made and showing no sign of staleness or decay

聽聽聽 not having been preserved, aged, or processed, e.g. by canning or freezing

聽聽聽 additional to or replacing something that existed, was used before, or is past its best

聽聽聽 new or clean and showing no signs of previous use

聽聽聽 Green

Green like the color on the flag standing below my ceiling to remind me of home or my imperfectly made lime sheet to reminds me of an ideal colorful and joyful youth.

Green: a freshly made idea to remind me of the existence of future and possibilities.


When it was Aida port, I used to think of heaven and above; I used to think of life beyond Senegal. Now that it is Airport, for some reasons, I hear an annoying bell resembling that of my alarm clock standing in front of my window waiting to go off, or the loud noise coming from the mouth of many pressing strangers. I no longer like the thought of being in the heaven; it reminds me of seating in one seat that isn鈥檛 built for comfort, listening to noises coming from turbulences; it reminds me of body aches built from anxiety, built from seating in one seat for 4 hours forced to feel every passing seconds.


I have always had a hard time being on time and if I was on time, I had a hard time waiting. We always joked about punctuality. We always said that if it is a black person you are meeting, give him or her thirty minutes earlier than the original time, if you want them to be on time and if it is an African, at least an hour or two is necessary.

It is sad how we agreed upon this and how so far I have not met one person of color who disagreed. I am starting to think that this is true.


Squash is rare in my daily vocabulary. However, when I hear it, as I do with any others, an intense image pops up in my head to give me an idea of its meaning. When I hear squash, I see this bearded man who looks like he just finished working the fields; he is wearing a country designated fashion clothing, holding a wooden hammer and there is a water melon seating on the top of the bottom of an already cut tree. The man is aiming the hammer, with all his force, at the watermelon.

Though a weird image, I have a feeling that it is close to the right definition.


It is a mostly wooden polygon of 10 sides, extruded to more than 28 feet high, painted black at first 5 feet from bottom up, then white for the next 15 feet, then the next 4 feet are glasses outlined with thick and wide wooden sticks on each of the 10 sides; the top of the lighthouse, which is the last 4 feet, resemble the top of a hut in village from the Sahara except that it is built with impenetrable woods. Its inside is a replica of obtainable comfort in moments of storm.

I imagine that this is what a lighthouse looks like. J


I have three clocks/alarms in my room. One is a silver clock outline in black; it is situated next to my black and bright clocks which seats in front of the window away from my bed. The other clock is my phone whose charger is about four feet away from my bed.

The locations are important because when they ring, I would be forced to get off my bed, walk, open my eyes then find the off buttons.

Sadly, I have memorized all the steps. So now, with my eyes closed, in less than a minute, I turn off all the alarms and go back to bed as if nothing has ever happened.


We are always told to stretch since we were able to think. Stretch your mind, think outside of the box, think of something new, think of the impossible, think of the unthinkable, stretch pass the limit, and more, they told us. But sometimes, I don鈥檛 want to stretch, I don鈥檛 want to think of tomorrow, I don鈥檛 want to calculate outcomes, I don鈥檛 want to dream of possibilities. Sometimes, I just want to un-stretch; I want to not even think of today. Sometimes, I just want to think of silence or maybe not even think of anything. I want to live without thinking of crossing the lines鈥 only sometimes.

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