Muse

The morning feels like night. This night feels like swirls of stars mashed up with the moon, viewed from inside a spinning tea-cup, floating nonchalantly in the ocean.

Sinking within that padded tea-cup, somewhat lost in the streaming tears and silent sobs. The lullaby sailing past ears and I am the sole listener. The waves and sirens of the ocean can't be heard, for all I'm hearing is the sound of my thought scrambling to speak, the melancholy of the song trying to break free of its grounded sorrow.

Don't remember when I climbed in or set sail or left the shore I created in my head. Dreams are funny in these ways. They don't show you the beginning or the end. They deprive you from the cause and consequences but they let you watch the making of it.

The land of in between, thus when I'm finally made awake, I felt robbed. Unsatisfied. Angry even sometimes.

My back is turned on so many things I forget which marble of memory is a figment of imagination, or which is something real.

Tea-cup now sound like a great place to be. If only I have an ocean to myself, then I'll launch my bone china detailed in twirls of blue and gold, padded with maroon velvet which smells faintly like lemons. Will lie on my back waiting for the wind to pick up and twirl me about. Then we can watch the stars zig-zag in pseudomovements. The moon may just stay in his place and bemused at the paradoxical camaraderie of a single girl in a teacup.

Strange even, that these tears can't dry. Stranger even that they came without reason. Weird, that it came like a snap and left in a blink.

We walked alone the crowded street. The stares were blank as the whitewash wall. The scent stopped pulling nor the flesh is pushing it away. Every song is now haunting as that lurking shadow somewhere inside the teacup. I thought the sun is out, so who's casting shadows all over? Almost lover almost bring back the 15 minutes. But it can't be helped now can it when it's looped for half an hour now.

The rain cleared. I think I should head to wards.