Two o'clock the street light was trying to stab it's way into the living room through the soft silk curtains. The sofa is not a place to fall asleep, so it was no surprise that at this ungodly hour there I was looking at the silence that this light gave to such an hour. Time makes events a cascading array of thoughts as early, early morning brain activity takes a numbing walk into the paradoxes that are in fact reality calls. Does one fear to close ones eyes to avoid the nightmares that await in those places?
Unconsciousness eventually took hold and the light was beaten back for the window as my eye lids closed. Now, with the best morning friend permeating my veins as I drink into it's black, deep narcotic flavouring, I make cause to understand the night, more so the day. More so the night and day that follow each other like chess pieces facing each other in some black and white challenge. Without this drug my mind would ache to the weariness that prevails in the thinking of deep continuous thoughts such as 'the one thing'.
One day that one thing will be a small group of folk standing, dressed in dark attire and maybe reminiscing or at least eulogising over the past that is now at present. However, this is not the one thing thing. Nor would be the million and one other trivial aspects that filter in between each heart beat and create the normal function of the day; eat breakfast, brush teeth, buy a bus ticket, Starbucks for coffee, walk the dog (if I had one), supermarket, ATM, bagel, bun or sandwich. These again are not that one thing.
The strong smell of pencil, that in the past few days has only become a lingering scent, where passion in my veins does in fact create a sense of purpose. A creative flow that makes the stretch between childhood scribbles to commercial and creative art a path of enlightenment, of wonder and of unexpected passion. This need to find resolve as the bills need to be paid, and the desires for form and flow are countered by the needs to pay the bills.
The coffee has almost gone, and so has the time, and the clock looks like it needs to remind me that the day has to start and the trail to college must in some post-civilised way, become a road to valued enlightenment; that the grey face mean something. These again are not that one thing. Death does come to us all, for the fact can never be washed from our minds, not even in mythological fountain springs. The sense of living and the sense of feeling however, has no place there.
The one thing that I did realise this morning, whilst looking at the deeper aspects of the bottom of the coffee cup is the simplest of thoughts, the hardest to live, accept and to determine. Something that washes like cold rain, and warming sun can burn into the inner emotions of a foolishly, artist heart: you are on my mind, in my dreams, on every breath, in every beat of this heart. You stand in front of me in dreams and dance as pictures when my eyes are closed. You are everywhere, but not in front of me. You are the one thing that makes the day more than just another day!.
That is why you are my muse!
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