Heart of Muse

El ser que escribe sin pensar en lo que escribe; ése que fluye desde lo que el sentir le dicta, no habita en el mundo de la razón. ¿Sabes qué es lo maravilloso de escribir? Que, al hacerlo, uno se olvida de lo que es para dejar nacer al sentimiento. Escribir es una forma de disolverse: te vuelves gota que se derrama de la fuente gloriosa de la inspiración, y con dulces trazos transcribes un…

It was last December when I remembered The reason I couldn't cry for so long There's a shadow of doubt over my shoulders Keeping me tied up because everything’s wrong;

Maybe mistakes could tame all this pain, Maybe if I didn't care for a day, What if I quit, would you follow me? I just want to find relief in the rain.

I'm always afraid to step out of line My mind's playing games and I believe all the lies So teach me to break, teach me to fall Help me be human once and for all.

A sudden pang of nausea; Contrite and I do not know where to find Emollience in my own arms.

These Perfectly fine Functioning tools (tough, numbed) Mechanically performing tasks and labour, I need to know whether they can still send And receive Electromagnetic fields.

I need some Sense of relief or a reminder Of the sorts; a breath of fresh air, not Another pang. Virulent echoes; scattering Fireworks. A signal torch In a cavern labyrinth; light Dying out.

Everything Moves too slow; Gets lodged in my throat, Like a crop filled With answerless questions; Hapless wonders — I just don't know Whether this is a Sickness of the mind, Body, Or soul.

It is as though Something inside me keeps whining:

"I want to go home."

And I cannot convince it it has to make do With these four walls; The warmth Of a bath, a hearty meal, Or the softness of a pillow.

I want to blame the girl; I want to attribute this nauseating hole To a larger than life romantic suffering, But I don't like lying, and even if I must, Never to myself.

The truth is I do not miss. Not today. This gnawing Wound is not a missing puzzle piece That is coincidentally and conveniently She- Shaped.

I don't understand

Why.

This, Always dark; Always cut off from the outside world; Has made me what I am, A stalagmite Built up from drops of cold. Here, where warmth and light play no role In tales of becoming.

I am perfectly adapted to my micro-climate:

For all my Intents and purposes, I lack nothing.

Nothing.

So, why

Do I suddenly Feel like I should cry or vomit?

I am what the cruelly named Blobfish is supposed to look like, swimming In the deep dark;

I do not want to be snatched up To see the sunlight For a second, Then die.

I would only end up malformed.

Let me have my nothing.

I do not want To want.