The Thing

I have something living inside me. I can feel it moving, in the quieter moments. Moments that belong to the stirring breeze. It feels to be about the size of an egg, if I could hold it in my two hands cupped together. But it always unravels, in the quieter moments, sending out its long living tendrils to follow the paths my arteries and veins take to my vital organs.
The breeze is sweet on my neck, a kiss. It stirs, the living thing, it growls.

When we are alone together, the living thing makes for very genial company. We are almost friends. I sit in the garden and dig my feet into the earth, toe by pink toe, and listen to it gnatter on about all our grand plans for ‘life’, as if it is not a happening thing. I blow bubbles with my own spit and let the ants crawl up from the concrete path onto my legs, and I listen to it spouting dreams, like smoke rings into the clear day.

But there are times when I don’t want to dream, or even listen to dreams. There are times when I am distracted, by lights, and sounds, and conversation occurring outside of my mind. I do not pay enough attention to the living thing, and sometimes it can become frustrated, or resentful, and can sour my mood. Sometimes it will express itself in different ways; I will find myself laughing louder than I meant to. Or diving into the ocean still wearing my party dress. Or asking people if they wished that magic was real, and the promising them that it really, truly, is, it just doesn’t happen like it does in the fairytales. It makes me ear three pieces of birthday cake and wash it down with three flutes of champagne and I cannot control it unless. Unless there is music.
Through music I can inhabit the living thing, I can tap into its magic. And when we dance together I can step into the dreams, I can absorb the colour and touch the petals and taste the sweetness. When we dance, I feel like I am brave enough to start living them.

                                                                                                   
Sometimes I am scared of this thing that lives inside me. I am scared of the consequences of its actions, and I am scared of it getting fed up with my soft yellow belly and leaving me for good. It is the wild thing, and without it I am just dead wood.

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