My sister begs to differ but I actually think I have a life. I have a job as a Sales Executive for a corporate ISP. The last place an altruistic creative should be working but hey -c’est la vie. I live alone in a pretty two bedroom apartment, have three potted plants (they are living things after all) and no cats yet.
The moments between one day to the next are spent either reading, gushing at pictures of friend’s babies and the occasional whiskeys with 43-year-old madalas.
This is me.
I am perfectly happy spending my Friday evening curled up in bed at seven thirty p.m. reading a book, having previously spent half an hour in a deliciously warm pomegranate & berry bubble bath, sipping on a glass of a full bodied sweet wine and listening to soulful tunes.
Just simply immersing myself in the little joys of life that make me feel like there is a secret internal dance going on in my body.
I love to cook too. Often with loud music on.
Huge elaborate meals -three courses sometimes- to share with a by now heavier Mr. Ngulube (the night guard.) I hate to waste food you see. It is a privilege to have a warm meal on one’s table. That doesn’t change no matter who you are.
But the point is, even if I spent an entire weekend in quiet reverie, I’d still think I have a life. A beautiful, wonderfully fulfilling life.
So why am I here writing this post? Well, in the words of Anais Nin, ‘we write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.’
And so I write.