Tsoku Maela – The Three, 2015

In a dream so lucid, suspended between life and death, in search of self in a current of consciousness, I live infinity. A universe that looks at itself with fantasy. "Who am I?" I asked the infinite viewer, his eyes as deep as the ocean, his soul torn apart by the earthquake. Swirling in the pool of my confusion; everything that was not said left much to be desired. "Who am I?" I asked the Infinite, skin like a pecan like the African hills, such beauty tied my belly in bantuno knots. Is it love or lust? The question reverberates in the corridors of my mind, reminding me of the day I chose them as my own. I remember before I was born. I remembered my many deaths. Before the Infinite becomes Me, and I become infinite. "Who am I?" I asked again. Silence gave me violence so wretched that the mind waged war against the heart. Hands tremble, shoulders weak, knees curly by the weight of the gift, the anointing: "Who am I?! Chosen to live this life? Unworthy and misguided, why did you choose me? Who am I?" Silence gave me such wretched violence that hope waged war against time, but the Infinite finally responded, rolling in its cradle, to the laughter that sprang from its navel: "Who are you?"