Cave and fire

I wake up next to you, every morning. I fall asleep next to you, every night. You are my partner, my husband, my wife, my teacher, my student, my guide.

Yet I have never laid eyes on you. You are not a tangible entity. You are elusive. You are a figment of my imagination. You are the platonian cave dweller.

There are so many reflections of you in this world, but they are not, cannot be, you. Still I keep looking. They are all flawed, being reflections.

Their imperfections make them all the more beautiful. Perfection is for the gods, not for me.

When I woke up this morning...

...I laughed out loud. I had been smiling all night. There is so much joy built up inside of me, and it needs to get out. This feeling comes with a Busby Berkeley scenography, ladies in tiny glittering dresses and men in tails, dancing, smiling, whirling their top hats.

Oh, so much joy!

In a blur

My glasses lie on top of my coffee table, in my living room. I, however, am at work. That's not the way things ought to be. At all.

Life is a blur.

Water is thicker than blood

A water nymph has moved into my home. A naiad. She is beautiful, and she sings to me. Her songs are about spring and ice breaking open and melting, about tender rains and fogs. Her very being is moisture. When she isn’t singing, she’s talking. She has the loveliest of voices.

She resides underneath my window. That way she can watch the stunning view of the valley covered in mist in the morning. She loves the mist. The mist is her kin. I think one day she will leave me for it, and I will be broken hearted and my life will be dry, wither and fall apart, when I no longer have her humidity to rely on.

She mistook me for a naiad, that’s why she moved in. I spend most of my evenings soaking in the tub, I must have had a watery scent. She noticed me from afar and when I approached her, she placed a soft, wet kiss on my forehead. I drowned in her eyes.

I am no naiad. I am flesh. I am blood. I don’t have the loveliest of voices. I am not moisture, nor mist. She knows this, now. Her mistake lasted but a moment. Still she came to me. Still she tells me I am a naiad too.