Blog

In every land where knowledge is pursued, there lies an avenue, a path trodden by&nbsp; countless seekers of wisdom. This avenue, in its journey towards the hallowed halls of learning, harbors a house – not just any house, but the Eternal House on Academic Avenue. This house, a mosaic of time and tales, stands as a testament to the unending cycle of student life. Its walls, though seemingly weary, are vibrant with the echoes of laughter, debates, and the subtle hum of a life lived unrestrained. Here, the front door is but an ornamental relic, as the preferred entrance is a side&nbsp; window, opening into a realm where the conventional is politely shown the door. The interior breathes with the rhythm of a kettle eternally on the boil, and a fridge, an ever reliable haven for thirst-quenching brews. The backyard, a sanctuary of the surreal, whispers of late-night musings under the moonlight. Here, one might imagine the odd sight of socks serenely growing on banana trees, a curious thought born from the fertile soil of youthful imagination. The house's soul is woven from the fabric of countless stories – of rooms flooded in impromptu aquatic escapades, ceilings lit by the rogue fireworks of indoor revelries.&nbsp; Each corner, each creaking floorboard holds a piece of history, a fragment of a story passed down through generations. Within these walls, the saga of unspoken romances, of hearts entwined and then&nbsp; unraveled, plays out with the passing years. Stories of love, passion, and sometimes,&nbsp; the comical misfortunes of romance gone awry, become part of its lore. Then there's the legend of the ghostly visitor, the spectral figure whose brief, turbulent encounter with a drawer left an indelible mark on the house's humorous history.The decor itself is a patchwork of dreams and aspirations. Walls adorned with the 
emblems of sports teams and the remnants of games played in jest, each sticker, each 
mark a symbol of the times.
This house, dear listener, is more than a mere abode. It's a perpetual chronicle, capturing the essence of each era it witnesses. Its legacy is not in the bricks that hold it 
upright, but in the unceasing spirit of youth that fills its rooms.
Cheers to the Eternal House on Academic Avenue, a bastion of learning in its own quirky right. In its embrace, every generation discovers a piece of itself, contributing to the 
ongoing saga of this extraordinary, eternal snapshot of history.

The enternal house on academic avenue

In a bar, not so far from the Milky Way's star, Stalin sipped vodka, eyeing caviar. Ladies in flapper dresses, gents in top hats, Joe thought, "Politics aside, I'm quite the aristocrat." "My reputation's tarnished, they say I'm severe, But put me in this bar, and I'm the man of the year. Those gulags and purges? A simple faux pas, Like spilling your drink on a femme fatale's bra." He winked at a lady, with legs up to there, She raised an eyebrow, gave a devilish stare. "If only," he mused, "they saw this side of me, The playful, the flirty, the downright carefree." A jazz band played, the saxophone wailed, As Stalin danced, his mustache never failed. To tickle and tease, as he twirled on the floor, Had history got it wrong? Was there more to explore? He whispered to a dame, "Come, let's elope, To a land where there's peace, and endless hope." She giggled and said, "You're quite the charmer, Joe, But remember, it's just for the show." As the night wore on, and the stars did gleam,Stalin awoke, realizing it was all a dream.
Yet in that brief moment, of risqué delight,
He wondered if history might someday rewrite.

If they knew the real me

Ah, the Rose, you are but the Trash Panda of flora's land,A marauder in red, a bandit with thorns in hand.You offer refuge to the scoundrel, in your petals she'll nest,After an evening spent under the CEO's desk, no less. Oh, how you've been Hallmarked, boxed and sold,A symbol of Valentine trashery, a lie that's old.Brutalised by a love that's anything but pure,A societal farce that we're all supposed to endure. You're as artificial as Pamela's assets, or the Gold Coast's gleam,A plastic effigy of love, or so it would seem.You signify society's fakery in matters of the heart,A falsehood in full bloom, a deceptive work of art. So if you claim to love me, heed this verse,Know that of all the flowers, the Rose is the worst.Give me, instead, a Dandelion plucked from the field

The Dandelion

<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));" data-mce-style="font-family: inherit; font-size: calc(16px * var(--body-fontSize, 1)); font-weight: inherit; font-style: var(--body-fontStyle, normal); background-color: rgba(249,250,251,var(--tw-bg-opacity));">Two crooked paths slithered apart in a jaundiced forest; yellowed leaves, bile-soaked wood and damn me, cursed with just one soul, I couldn’t split in two, couldn’t slip like mercury down both veins, couldn’t dance the split-legged jig of indecision. So there I was, frozen, stuck like a nail in the eye of the universe, gazing down one road until it twisted away, swallowed by the snarling, tangled undergrowth of this fractured mindscape. Then; madness or clarity; who can tell in such moments of existential vertigo? I leapt, feet first, into the other, the road less worn, less beaten down by the hammers of a thousand weary feet. It was a ragged, wild thing, grassy, begging for footsteps, a virgin path in a world too eager to crush innocence beneath the heel. But—ha!—isn’t it always the same? Footprints overlap, memory blurs, and soon enough, that too would be a well-trodden way. The morning wore both paths like an indifferent lover’s cloak, untouched by the ruin of choice, untouched by man’s need to carve stories into earth’s flesh. Leaves cradled the ground, waiting to be trampled, waiting for fate to play its cruel hand. Oh, but I, fool of fools, held back, kept one path in the dusty chamber of ‘later,’ a promise to myself wrapped in the rustling silence of inevitability. But who am I kidding? I knew, I "knew" that once you start down one road, the other slips away, a whisper of what could have been, lost in the swirling eddies of time. Paths don’t wait, they don’t circle back. No, they coil forward, devouring themselves in the endless now. And so, I’ll whisper this to the wind in some distant future, a sigh that echoes through the ages: Two roads forked, twisted, danced in that sickly wood, and I; madman, dreamer, drifter; I chose the one less beaten, less scarred by the march of men. And it, oh yes, it has made all the difference… or has it? FSF

Two paths, one fool

In the beginning, you were nothing but a thought,&nbsp;&nbsp;A whisper in the universe’s crowded ear,&nbsp;&nbsp;Fumbling in the void, a puzzle half-bought,&nbsp;&nbsp;While others swam in champagne, you drowned in beer.&nbsp;&nbsp; Your hands grew calloused from grappling with fate,&nbsp;&nbsp;Fingers entwined in the gears of the grind,&nbsp;&nbsp;While they sipped sweet wines, reclining, sedate,&nbsp;&nbsp;You choked on the fumes of the engines you lined.&nbsp;&nbsp; The nights were long, your dreams bedraggled,&nbsp;&nbsp;As shadows danced on the edge of your bed,&nbsp;&nbsp;While others had paths so neatly unravelled,&nbsp;&nbsp;You tripped on your own, bled, and then bled.&nbsp;&nbsp; But now you stand tall, with gold at your feet,&nbsp;&nbsp;The prize in your palm, the spoils of the game,&nbsp;&nbsp;They see your crown, they envy your seat,&nbsp;&nbsp;But never the scars that carved out your name.&nbsp;&nbsp; They see the shine, but not the grind,&nbsp;&nbsp;The roads you paved with bitter sweat,&nbsp;&nbsp;They want the end, not the journey behind,&nbsp;&nbsp;The fire you walked through they quickly forget.&nbsp;&nbsp; For what they crave is the glimmer, the gleam,&nbsp;&nbsp;The tale that is told when the hero's returned,&nbsp;&nbsp;Not the ashes left in the wake of the dream,&nbsp;&nbsp;Or the bridges that smoldered, or the lessons hard-learned.&nbsp;&nbsp; So wear your laurels, though heavy they weigh,&nbsp;&nbsp;Let them gaze with envy, unknowing, unwise,&nbsp;&nbsp;For you earned every inch of your triumph today,&nbsp;&nbsp;In the shadows, the dirt, beneath disinterested skies.&nbsp;&nbsp; Let them covet, let them pine for your place,&nbsp;&nbsp;But know in your heart, as you smile from afar,&nbsp;&nbsp;They see the crown, but they’ll never face&nbsp;&nbsp;The crucible that forged your star.

No one is jealous of the journey

What is it about the Olympics, that strange, glorious parade of the odd and the beautiful, that makes us care so deeply about women's under 58kg weightlifting, a sport we hadn’t known existed until last Tuesday? Handball, with its curious mix of soccer and something else entirely, becomes, for two weeks, the reason I leap from my couch with the enthusiasm of a man possessed. And why do I find myself invested in the form of the Nigerian marathoner, who I’m certain has the legs to go all the way, or suspect that New Zealand, of all places, will walk away with wrestling gold? Is it the magic of the moment, or some ancient spell from the days of gladiators and chariot races, a modern Coliseum wrapped in flags and good intentions? Perhaps it's both—a cocktail of spectacle and spirit, just enough opiate to keep us cheering, our voices hoarse with excitement instead of anger. But whatever it is, whatever alchemy makes me suddenly an expert in canoe slalom or synchronized swimming, I’m hooked, and when the closing ceremony arrives, I’ll be the one asking, “Can we have a third week, please?”

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The enternal house on academic avenue

If they knew the real me

The Dandelion

Two paths, one fool

No one is jealous of the journey

Olympic Fever