I wonder at what point the rain lost its magic for me. When the flowers on my windowsill wilted and died. When all the colour in the world became muted and dull.
When I forgot the very reason, the very thing that made me me.

Theres no beauty left in this. The barren landscape of a body; mottled with freckles, lacy scars and butterfly-like bruises. The mind that does not question, but does not do what it's told. The lullaby that plays, on repeat, for days.

And yet the sun still rises. A sheer blue backdrop awaits. The pitiful children with their significance imagined. Thinking the gods would make the sky cry just to suit them.

But these sympathetic sighs and gentle gestures are still unwanted. Who could remember their place when they're wrapped in cotton?

I scrap my knee and I fall on my face. I make social faux-pas and I remember.

I relish the flavours that are the most artificial. I laugh at the silence and dance to the moon. And I remember.

I still hide from the sad songs, that leave me deafened for days and I'm blind to all but the most glaringly obvious.

But I'll be me again. If only I could forget.