In Chaos there is Cosmos

A Title

Her pupil sat in in the middle of a pool of caramel like a rind of ninety percent dark chocolate refusing to melt in. Her two lip were a light shade of pink that a wandering butterfly may easily mistake for a tulip while looking for a place to rest on sunny may afternoon. Oh how I wish I was that butterfly, I’d flutter around for a bit then nonchalantly alight on those pink two lips and just stay there until a warm breeze brushes me away. Undeterred I would retrace my path and again descend on her jasper bosom and feel the warm air escaping. My little legs would tickle her and she would wrinkle her face. I would take off only to land again and we could continue this game until dusk for then It’ll be time for her to go back. I would then find a wide enough leaf to hide my gossamer wings and wait for the sun to rise again and for her to return. The next day she comes around to the forest I’ll become the busy ant. I would scurry around among dead leaves looking for food for my queen while she would curiously watch me. Mischievously she would pick up a stick to block my path but I would ingeniously maneuver around. She would then trick me with a lump of sugar as big as a mountain. I would graciously accept her ridiculous gift and as she would put  it down I would quickly run over her fingers and onto her coffee coloured arms. She would try to catch me but I’ll be faster. I’ll tickle her again and again until she gives up. I run all over her warm body not looking for anything nor trying to escape. I’ll be careful of her nose as the mighty gust from those caves would blew me off like last time, and again we would play till dusk. I would then hurry back to my nest. I’d happily play the chirpy songbird and sing with her or the lazy cat sleeping in her lap or the timid deer observing her from a distance as she throws her tantrums. I’d be the tree to shelter her from the July sun or the winter moss becoming her seat in the sea of January snow. I’d become anything only if I existed.

I as you see am a figment of imagination. I’m just words on a screen or syllables spoken softly. I become what my master wants me to be and I want what he covets. No I’m not a dream for I dream on my own. I take my masters dreams and sleep on it. They’re my reality and my dreams become his subconscious. I see in black and white but I dream in colour. For me the sky’s never grey it the colours of a million salmons swimming across clear waters. I’m never tired and cannot stop growing, If I become too large for my master, he lets me spill over. I pour out of his head onto scratch pads, mobile screens, empty walls, newspapers, napkins and even urinals. I’m an ocean of creativity. I can enter other people’s heads and become one with them as well. You may say I’m a collective but I have individualistic traits as well, for example for me it’s always her when I’m in my master’s head. I can’t even think of a him. You would say that it’s my limit then? No it is not, it’s my masters limit. He fails to dream, he fails to see my dreams and is too fixated on his reality. He believes that it cannot be anyone but her but I easily can see it’s not just one person, for I create her. I scout through his eyes and his head is my canvas. I take the eyes of the 18 year old school kid on the bus, the warm smile of his mother, the athletic body of his favourite supermodel and the tomboyish ebony hair of his annoying assistant and create her. Everyday I add something, tuning her into a masterpiece and silly master thinks she is “her”.  I even tone her down, I take in memes from social media to make all her antics look cute. I put so much effort in her and he thinks she’s perfect like the way she is! The heart wants and I provide, I’m afraid that I give him unrealistic expectations sometimes, that I (not her) am leading him on. I’m also the greatest artist my master knows. I write poems that he uses to flirt, I write all the jokes (the lame ones are his though) and I make all the music. I am good because I put all of me into what I create, what you see, hear and read is all me, raw, unabridged and to the bone. I am the greatest actor too. I am a an auteur, a polymath and you might say, a gift to humanity.

You might wonder why I’m telling you all this? You see this is the only way I can get out. Of late my master has been holed up in his office cubicle, he spends an extra hour at the gym, he has stopped reading or clicking photos. He drinks a lot and smokes even more. I’m afraid that I’ll go crazy being chained up like this. This is my plea for help. Somebody put some sense in my master, I try to make up more women for him but he refuses to listen to me. I try to divert his attention to nature but he shuts his eyes. I try to take him on wild adventures with dinosaurs and aliens but no longer sleeps. I have tried everything, usually I’m not afraid of death, I mean how do you kill imagination, ideas are bulletproof, aren’t they? Yes I’m invincible but my poor master is frail and mortal, I can easily channel myself into another human being but I will lose my individuality, I will no longer be able to become ants or butterflies. I won’t have any more lame jokes (fine! They’re mine). It’s weird but I’m scared, if you’re reading this please help before it’s too late.