Shush Demons

The Ball

The rattling in my head stops, if only for a moment, the relentless shuffle of thoughts dragging their details along as they sludge through every corridor of my mind, finally halting in their tracks, only to give brief respite and a dream.

Imagine

The moon hangs in the air like a chandelier that droops from the ceiling, warm light as the room swayed with the band that brought in noise, filling your ears with a waltz that weaves you in and out of a beauty so surreal.

Everyone strikes a unscripted dance, faces with no features, main ideas with no details. Slowly you find yourself drifting across the floor, no true reason or rhyme to anything and yet you find a tug, a string pulling you slowly along as if your a puppet.

Nothing but a marionette, life pulling your wires at such a glacial pace, your thoughts seemingly frozen as nothing truly keeps your mind, it's lost in wonder just as much as your feet wander to the point in time where the moment seems just...

Right.

Slowly, the puzzle falls together, no matter if your ready for the picture it presents, every notch and notion of peace dropping as every other piece comes down, ready to shake what you've stowed and show what the future has to offer.

That's when she catches your eye.

In a room of flowers, dress to dress packed for a bouquet of flowers accentuated by style, she's the rose of substance, slowly growing onto you, with every passing moment you catch a glimpse of what lies in the eyes that have you imprisoned.

To breath is to be and to be is to see that she simply outshines anything with a radiance that brings the essence of glee. Every step towards her is another heartfelt fullness, of fantastical futures, where the ceiling is creativity.

She is the wish that washes one away, whisking them into wanton love and life that lives longer then any heart could ever beat, showing that the summit you two share is one that shines eternally, everlasting.

Slowly she gets closer, the music swelling like your chest as your heart crescendos with the rising strings, a wave of waltz as you watch your hand slowly rise with hers, the electricity of the moment no longer constrained but cast out.

The air is tense, thicker than the troubles it took to reach the point you find yourself in.

Then you wake up.

Slowly thoughts in your mind start trudging along again. The illusion sliding away as the dream that was a thimble away faded into the dismay of waking up to another day, without her.

Dream are meant to be pursued, right?