by Muri
Under green leaves, up on the trees, between blades of grass and on the streets, hidden in flower buds and teacups and pantries, dancing on clouds like fairies, lying warm and cozy in freshly baked bread, and most importantly, spinning and spinning and spinning all inside your head, these little fluffy feelings.
They peek through the sheets in the morning, greet you with the rays of sun, stroll through the pages of your book and all around the ground they run. They slide with your sips of water, they are sewn into your pillow’s silk, they wait for you at the kitchen door and swim inside your honey with milk.Â
They patiently sit in your working shoe, inside your jacket and in the coffee you brew. And on the way from bus to bus, they count the stations that you cross. And all the faces that you see and all the places you will be, all the words from mouth to ear and all the noises that you hear are fully stuffed and fully filled with pride and joy, despair and guilt.Â
On your yellow office chair, in your curled up, messy hair, in your sleepy, half-closed eyes, in every shape, form and size, fluffy feelings everywhere. They whisper, they shout, they sing, they scream, they focus, they talk, they think, they dream. You move your way through the chaos they bring, like Moses splitting the sea. You sit and look at white, empty papers, trying to turn them feelings free. Empty head and empty eyes, keeping away the feel of despise. But as the big white clock strikes five, the little fluffy feelings revive. Up and down they jump in your brain, you take a pill against the pain.Â
And on the way back home, they crowd the seats of the bus. Why are they so loud? You slam the door to lock them out, yet they fly right through in high amount. Like pesty flies all over your skin, you hear their cries, you don’t let them in.Â
You sit down on the couch and pick up your phone, and you scroll and scroll the feels away. “I just need a moment of quiet” you say. The fluffy feelings don’t understand. They climb up and up to move your hand. Yet it lies glued to the colorful screen, the stream of information.
They shake and quake and jiggle and joggle, and you turn on the TV. They jump and sprint and hit and punch and sting like a bumblebee.Â
You turn to your bottle of beer in your hand, you take one jug, then another. You drink and drink and drink and drink until the feelings can’t bother. And when they try to look at you, you light them up in a fire. You huff and puff, turning them into smoke while you get higher and higher.Â
And in the dark as you try to sleep, they whisper in your ear: “I know you’re scared, but we are not the thing that you should fear.”Â
“Good night!” you yell and close your eyes, drifting into slumber. But they creep in your dreams, taking them over, turning your rainbows to thunder.
© Muri 2024-08-13