1 I Muse

No wonder it was all silent and calm.

The demise of Lyvia Silverwrath had halted the train on some weird ground. Only questions were there swaying my head miraculously.

Lyvia was my mother.

I still remember the way she used to creep up from behind and scare me.

Married at young age to chastise a certain passionately, she already gone at a tender age.

23 years.

Myself, 18. I was brought up as their own.

Suicide is an art crafted with integrity by life. The aids are numerous actors, binded and blinded by their own duties and narcissism.

Supposedly, you are told to scrutinize the way you fuck up things. How would you comment, what would you comment? We all know it better but we also forget.

It all gets senile with aging time.

Accustomed to sir with a blank expression, almost motionless, for hours, I felt the tingles in my legs and arms rise up.

With a big sigh, I stood and stretched like a cat and went to the nearest book shelf.

The gloomiest days are easier with fantasies.

Among the leather coats, a thick draft outstood. So much happiness armed in it, nevertheless, it was named 'Regret'.

Why? Who cares.

Oldest diaries were a great cue to my emotional knowledge.

Even though I never experienced much of them.

The emotions all roamed and strided  along the corridors, each row of the pages have, asundering from a strange past. And even sadness proved jolly friend.

Astounding.

The teacher who often teaches you how to feel swallowing yourself, we can learn from it much more  after things.

The knock on the door made me unfreeze. Kasmeré was here with here luring tea and cookies.

"Madam, you father is here, waiting downstairs." She said as I relaxed the cup on the table after a sip.

"Tell him to wait. I don't want miss the feeling of this tea. It is gonna be grumpy all after this." I said as I was in dilemma for a book for night.

"Okay, Madam." And she left, as obediently as she came, with me enjoying the monsoon breeze.