Morning dance
Morning comes as an unexpected guest, silently knocking at the window, then, without waiting for an answer, it steathily pours a measured ounce of diluted light into the room. I watch the gold curl around the edge of the bed, defying gravity as it seeps upwards and over the folds of the sheets, slowing to a halt at our feet.
You move in your sleep and the light has painted your hair blue, perhaps to match the blue of my eyes. Yet in this unmarked place where all is warm and comfort, where all is safe, I am weak and I give in to fear. The knowledge that existence is fragile, that in its fragility, any spark of fire needs careful kindling, that I have never been aware of my strengths, only my weaknesses and perhaps that is why I remain weak.
Your fingers dance in rhythm to mine, I am aware of the music we make. Aware, aware, I am always aware. I tire of being vigilant, of the feeling that I exist, suffocated by the distinct awareness of being alive. But then that is whence words come and where songs find their form, and I live in the constant fear that without all this I would merely cease to be. I am not frightened of death, just of being half-alive.
Your fingers dance in slow rhythm to mine and I hear your unspoken words in harmony to my own; I swallow my inadequacy. I have never been taught to fight. My name means "peace" and peaceful I am supposed to be, but when they made me, they didn't make me black and white — they gave me fire and the ability to be burned.
Morning comes as an unexpected guest, silently knocking at the window, urging the second hand of the clock over to the next minute. A reminder that we are slaves to time, bound by the dimensions of this earth. And yet, the music that propels us forward lends a song to our souls and wings with which to fly.
Your fingers dance in rhythm to mine, and the music we make drown out all else. I shall forever be caught between fear and the ecstasy of being alive — perhaps you shall be too.
18 January 2004, Sunday, 6:23 PM
Alter ego of dandruff
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