The melody is all invasive, incubating random thoughts trapped at the back of your mind, not your own but adopted fatherless emotions, belonging to everyone who can hear their shrieks in the cave of the lonely lovely living lack of space which emerges from every cell.

I breathed life into it but it is yours. One metaphor in countless thoughts with countless meanings, every one right on its own. Forming a pillar of feelings, an upside down Babel, straight on the stairway to hell.  Each sin, a demon on your shoulder and on mine, whispering twisted tales of what was, what is and what could have been.

The words penetrate your inner self, strengthening a vision of a world in a subjective bubble of bodies hitting your wonderwall. You engulf a mixture of their facial expressions even with your eyes closed, as if you are dreaming a dream; the chorus spinning you right round, in an effort to honeyglue a temporary sense to which you will go back again and again when there’s nothing left.

You could enrich it with any colour you like, creating a forgotten black planet out of papercuts or a sky with diamonds, shining bright. Become a composer for a day, make a sincere symphony out of your imagined me, which will never come close to the truth. A lie can be just as beautiful.

Raise me up by listening, for down in the pit I hear nothing but the sound of silence. Give me a rope with which to knot a swing for tomorrowland – a place where we’ll travel forever. Spread the butter generously to sunburn the clef of the French violin that hides at the bottom of my nightstand.

Patience has its limits and we’ve struck the final chord.

Yours for few minutes,

Myosotis

 

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