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I love music. When I’m in the car, I play music or listen to the radio. I also love to sing. I used to write my own songs. Some of the songs I sing at home or when I feel like, at work, were written by me. Although not recorded, but I reflect on the past when I sing those songs – I see the many roads I’ve walked when I sing.

In spite of my love for music and singing, there’s a place to press the stop button, and a time to completely silent all symphonies, no matter how sonorous they may be. So, I don’t always sing. I don’t always play music. I don’t always dance. Sometimes, I mute. Sometimes, I shut all voices. Sometimes, I stop the music. Sometimes, I go quiet. The days of quiet are the days of reaching the deepest part of my soul. Times of silence are the times of reflecting, looking back, stepping into that place that no one else can get to, but me. They are my moments of bliss.

When all voices are dead, the only voice I hear is the one within – that inner call gets louder and more audible – my soul ignites when I shut the world out of my life – my hunger is born when nothing else, but my inner message resonates – my inspiration utter mysteries when I build a fence around me – when me alone is present in a world of empty space.

 I’m not lonely – don’t think I am. When I’m not voicing, I’m actually talking – I’m talking in my world – hearing voices that challenge me to be my utmost best – that’s why I don’t surrender. Yes, I may deflate, but I always come back stronger and better. Yes, I may break but even in pieces, I beat the odds.

When they couldn’t beat me, they booed me. When they beat me, but their intention was to kill me, but they couldn’t, they called me names. I’m undeterred, unfazed, unmoved. I’m on the run – don’t misunderstand me – I’m not running from anyone – I’m just on my track, running my race, seeing my destination, and focused on my target. I’ll hit it – yes, I will. I’ll make that journey they said I wouldn’t be able to. I dare the dreads. I break manacles, I see chains in powders – I blend them like the dusts in deserts. I’m high – I snuffed nothing – never ever. When they rained the pains, I made a gain. They threw the tantrums, objects of abandon – I still made a gain. What am I like – a superman? For God’s sake, it’s a capital NO. What beats their imagination is that I’m weak, and they’re strong, but I never bow. I’m not rigid, only flexible – never broken by the storm – only woken. But they’re still strong, and I’m still weak. They’re still very strong, and I’m still very weak, but too much strength makes them weak – that’s where my strength begins.

When I think of my father’s car, I get devastated. It was parked on the highway. He got out of the car and departed – he went on a long journey – would probably not be back until the going down of the sun. But in the car are proteges – they can’t drive, but they think they can. They turned the wheel to the left, and then to the right. They turned on the ignition, but didn’t know how to change the gear. They pushed the handle back and forth – they damaged it. They’re stuck on the highway, not knowing where they are, or where to go, but they think they’re at home. They’re lost.

I went looking for my father’s car – I went into the jungles, searched all the bubbles – it was so dark and it rumbled. It was also thunderous, but I didn’t mind. For all the troubles, I was determined not to make them stumble – all for the sake of the man that went on a long journey.

The storm is on the way – I can tell it is. The cloud is getting thicker, the sky frowning horribly at anyone that stare at it. I’m scared – not for me, but for those in my father’s car. They think they’re shielded, protected, not vulnerable – but this weather knows no bounds – it respects no one. It swept away the very wise – it’ll make a mince meat of the foolish. Like a meteorologist, I can tell – the storm is gathering its momentum – those on the highway stand no chance.

When you’re an amateur pump, you think a balloon is same as a tyre. As you inflate it and it gets bigger, you get excited and inflate it the more. The more you inflate, the more excited you become, and because you’re inexperienced, you do not have the common sense, where to stop, and because you’re unwise, you won’t heed the advice of anyone who dares to stop you. You will keep inflating the balloon until it bursts – only then, do the other pumps learn a lesson and calm down. Listen: one balloon is about to burst. You’ll say I told you.

I put my hands on my head, speechless – beaten to submission, subdued in perplexity. I watched as she wriggled in the middle of the wild sea. She showed no fear, no iota of a second thought – that thought that every sensible being entertains – what if? There where bystanders who watched with contemplations, wondering if this world still has rules. Those who hailed her saw nothing wrong. Those who spent her bade her go. But she needed no motivation. She was on fire – the fire that only inspires fools to misdemeanour. And these all happened in my father’s car.

He was a soldier – he fought so many wars, but when the thieves came with toy guns, he couldn’t tell the difference. He capitulated – he gave up the ghost, where he was the host. Like a bed bound man who couldn’t lift a finger, he was hoisted from floor to floor. He laid in a pool of water, on the cold floor, but in his head, he thought he was on a water-bed. Those around him told him he was on water-bed. They lied to him, they fooled him. Truth was an enemy – lie was a friend. Just in case you’ve forgotten, these all happened in my father’s car.

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Ken is a leadership Motivation, Strategy and Personal Development Writer, Blogger and Speaker. He writes for a number of magazines and blogs. He is also a mentor and published author of several books.

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