Awake

It's spinning slowly, I wonder if that's the actual speed or just time running slowly. There is sweat in my chest, and the faint glow of red neon on the wall takes me to a sixties detective novel.

Asleep, next to me, lies a woman I've never met before. Her face is shrouded in mist with silver linen covering her mesmerizing body. The fragrance covering the room reminds me of a long lost sense of innocence, and her steady breathing is more soothing than a lullaby. Everything is in place, everything is how I wanted it to be. Yet, I might as well be falling in a bottomless pit. It feels the same.

The muse of my dreams no longer sings to me, and her usually gentle caress feels now like a condescending touch. I've lost the spark of fantasy and replaced it with stone cold reality. The more I long her presence, the further away it is.

What good is finding the road when all you enjoy is mud between your toes? What good is choosing a path, when the beauty of life lies in the possibilities? What worth is there in settling down, when losing yourself while soaring is so addictive?