I have traveled long in search of beauty; written poems about eyes, seashells, thighs, and even natural hair. There were times I’d dream of happy coitus, in some instances, did it too. I’ve looked into women’s behinds, adored their seductive lips and got lost in their bewitching curves. Still, I wasn’t home.
I have played a lot of sport. Football has been a god I gave my heart to. I have won games and lost many. I’d cheer teams whose players I’ve never met, probably never will, but for the passion. The passion has been real. My past cannot lie, just like history. Even with countless hours of watching passes, tackles and balls crossing lines, I have seen ‘beauty’, celebrated it, but still wasn’t home.
They’d laugh at me when I couldn’t speak good English. So I studied and somewhat mastered it. I spoke it before mirrors to make myself feel good; raised my voice a while and thought of some witty vocabulary that would bring cities to my feet. I wanted to be beautiful in a language, but couldn’t, because languages do not feel your brokenness.
I have wanted to die young, if only I could find myself a better me on the other side of life; a beautiful man. But I feared that maybe there is no beauty in death and by the time I find out, I wouldn’t live to tell.
After all the traveling, I found beauty within me, waiting to be noticed. And further inside it, God.