Stream of consciousness…
What was quiet has become a cacophony of sound once again. Thoughts scream down the superhighways of my mind, too fast to clock their speed. Too fast to determine their individual characteristics. Too many stories, feelings, experiences, each with the potential to fill its own chapter in this tremendous and tumultuous journey. Where did the time for thinking go? When did the machine start running again? The only answer I conceive: I live here now. Uganda is my home, Kampala my city. I have routine, family and friends. The sights and sounds belong to me now. Things fresh and different I no longer have descriptors for; they have become my new normal. Tentatively my roots thrust into red soil, spread from the home to the road through the wind to the people and now I am here and this is me now. Once again I have attachments that pull me in this direction or that, affect my mood, cause a furrowed brow, wistful smile, a jovial laugh. Till the end of my time I will have two places of belonging, two lives whose only connection is these thoughts running rampant. And I do think they will continue their furious sprint until here and there are no longer and all that remains is the intangible meanderings of my mind. The material and the physical perform as though essential but time reveals them as irrelevant and therefore it is with these thoughts I must remain. Remain and mould into a life worthy, a life with purpose. Energy expended on the superhighway must amount to something.
Arranging my thoughts into some semblance of order proves difficult. It is as if I am thinking as several different people at once. One self thinks as a recent university graduate, here to have the “Africa” experience, killing time before returning to the naturalness of campus life. Self two pushes against this, claiming that while others may be here for stereotypical voyages across continents, I am somehow, somewhere unique. I actually am making a difference, others are merely fading polaroids in a photoalbum forgotten. Another self realizes the infinite impossibility of individual effectiveness, while its alter-ego is reminded of Mandela, Gandhi, Ché. One loathes in self-unassuredness, in doubt, inadequacy. This self turns inward, carps about every fault, belittles. Whispering in the other ear is Self Six, suspiciously mothering; inspirational, motivational, choking down pills of confidence. One self sits poised as royalty, soaking up each stare, each waving child, each assumption of rich and powerful. She craves celebrity. Her cravings are dangerously indulged like a Hilton. Attention and affection lift her cloud out of reality. Clinging to her feet is the humbled Self. Quiet and observing, humbled Self is hardly a self at all, so concerned for the welfare of others. Together my selves are chaos wrapped in collectedness.
My remaining time here is sand through a sieve. My time here is the vast expanse of the Serengeti. I feel as though I have too much and not enough time simultaneously. How can I hope to achieve anything with so little time, with so much time? Am I here for self-discovery, and if so, do I remain with enough time to discover anything? Am I here for purely altruistic reasons, and if so, is there time enough to be effective? Should I travel? Should I remain in place? All these questions, these multiple personalities pulling me in this direction and that. Maybe the time is slipping away but not so fast that I can’t catch it; maybe I have enough time to achieve some things yet leave space for future endeavors; maybe I will discover myself as I discover others. Whatever happens, I am here now and will make every attempt to focus my mind in order to appreciate each and every aspect about this place and the experiences it is giving me.
~Nicole
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