Kibara, in tears, laughed.
The evening sun was now setting across Nyagatugu, laying golden layers on the verdant ridges rippling with tea, the sky looking like it might rain but had not made up its mind yet. Meanwhile all sorts of hues glowed, and the sun pierced the clouds with beams so surreal they appeared to be coming from the ground instead. Looking at it, the sky seemed so sweet like a death that is desired, an end that is earned.
“You know,” finishing out loud a conversation that had been taking place since he was shaken out of his brooding by the golden touch of a leaving star, “you are beautiful. But I am sad.” He said it calmly and with such an even voice as if the sky were in the room with him.
—
Kibara had been alright that morning. If by alright we mean getting up and going about with the day; what else can we mean? What else is there than going about?
No, the sorrow had descended on him that afternoon, when he landed upon a thought that left him paralyzed. The thought being;
I think less of myself.
Yeah yeah yeah, ultimately I don’t. Of course I don’t.
Sometimes a question is disregarded for the reason that the answer it seeks (not asks) needs a different question. Did he think less of himself? Or was he acting less than he thought of himself? What is less or more of oneself?
What does it matter if in fact, he did?
No way. I love myself. I know that. What I am asking is whether, despite (or based on) the nature of my love, I think less of myself.
The sky, meanwhile, went about.
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