Dancing dreams

What happens when you don't know what you want to make decisions for?

What happens when you stop caring for the distinctions? Between love and hate, between day and night, between right and wrong.

Because you don't care, for now atleast. Because you cannot decide whether you care or not.

Because all you want to do is feel.

Not think.

When you sit in that darkened room, twilight streaming in through the windows, watching the empty chair in the mirror, what do you want to think about?

Don't. Just don't.

There's that little green light blinking in the corner, it's too dark to see whereof the light is born, but it's alright. There is no need.

Blink. blink. blink.

You sit there, knees to your chest, watching the blinking green. Your fingers tap out a rhythm you can't remember the name of.

Tap. Tap, tap. Tap.

Somewhere there are voices, and laughter. You smile because you like to hear laughter. It's something you have not indulged in, for a while.

What is the need to laugh?

Faint music accompanies the staccato your finger tips play on the floor, and an unknowing band is formed, if only for a few minutes.

There is a whiff of perfume on the breeze that's teasing the curtains, and it makes you remember a night in the garden, under the moonlight.

You don't want to, but you do anyway.

Laughter, music and that perfume. Snatches of conversation, a smile and warmth.

Warmth that makes you colder now.

You stare at your feet. Feet that moved in tandem, in that garden, under the moon.

Feet that danced.

Feet that you didn't need to run away from something you didn't want to run away from.

But you did anyway.

It's cold, but you like it this way, because you don't like it warm. Especially when the warmth is not from another body.

You don't know because you are living on auto pilot. Being alive doesn't need thinking. Life is an automaton anyway.

At this point, it is easy to be this way.

Because thinking leads to memories, and you have no way of forgetting.

That garden under the moon.

Your vision is blurry, and your eyelids are heavy, and the cold is making you sleepy.

The green light is blinking still. As long as it is blinking, you feel alright.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

The curtains are still being tickled, and you think it's the wind laughing, watching the cloth squirm.

Your eyes close for a blink, and green light is gone, replaced with the August moon. Your lips curl into a smile, while your dreams see you dancing.

Laughter, voices, smiles and warmth.

Music, perfume and a garden in the moonlight.

You dance the night away.