I look outside the window. The cold morning bites the bones like a beast wrapping its jaws around its pray. The more you resist, the tighter it clenches. There's no way out, you can only surrender.
I have green tea in my mug. Usually it's an evening drink, but I'm too disorientated to care. Digging lema out of my eye corners, the echos of the night keep bouncing off the back of my head. For 8 hours daily I'm out of this reality, yet every time I come back, I cannot remember what happened. Spending third of my life in that altered reality, you'd think there would be something important. Perhaps my timing is just off.
Dance teacher gives accurate feedback according to which the trainee can adjust her movement: more delicate, elbows higher, push the hips, raise the chin up. Where's the manual for the mind? Maybe the gnome drilling out of my head is trying to tell me that - my head feels like it has been hit into a sharp corner of furniture. Perhaps I am a flailing madman in my sleep and return back to normal, oblivious of the events during my alter-ego's short era. Like a werewolf during full moon.
The air looks like it's painted with glitter of an evil empress looking upon her kingdom. It's beautiful, but filled with bad intentions. "Sweet cold death", I imagine when looking inside her – like the apple in Snow White. I almost put the blame of the wrongs in the world to the cold hearted, but then realize, that I might have mistaken the order of causality. Perhaps world's essence is cold, that's what I think when I look up to the sky; impersonal cold space. Yet still we have this oasis traveling around a fusion reactor in that empty space, and somehow that thought makes me a little bit less cold on the inside.
I close my eyes and take a sip. Tea is cold. The little warmth inside me runs away like the disappointment of a backwinter that sets back life's triumph in the spring sun. A force for good seems to always be equally countered with that of the opposing one.
Something in me dies a little when I realize I cannot all the time put my rose-colored glasses when tripping on the narrow path that crosses the good and evil in my heart. The world escapes from my sight when I cannot beautify a tree from the forest. It slips from my hand like the 'now' you try to hold on to and drains to the frosty ground where its reflection stairs me back like regret from the past.
I inhale, and all I can feel is the breath of the empress whose spores infect me from within, nullify me, until I am but a decomposed shelf on my seat.