Saturday 23 May 2015

The Mug

Today I broke my favourite mug. It was stained and old, a little chipped and yellowed by time, but faithful to my thirsty lips, loyal to my broken fingers. But today, even she wanted to walk away. And so it slipped away from my trembling fingers...
I knelt next to it, took it into my hands as broken as it was, not really knowing what to do with the shards that could not be glued back together. Their rough edges looked so desolated and confused, so broken in their porcelain white innocence that tears gushed rives down my cheeks, flooding my lips and chin. They were bitter and salty seas as I tried to see the shards through their foam, they were a thunderstorm in my ears while I tried to hear them turning into dust in my hands. 
And there on the floor I sat, mourning the loss of my mug, away from the maddening world, confined inside my tiny room, breathing out the air that floated in through the open windows. The more I cried, the sleepier I got and soon I fell and fell into thick, warm and liquid darkness, velvet-like oblivion which surrounded me like a shroud. It wasn't scary, it wasn't hard, it wasn't... anything.
I just fell through murmurs and whispers.
I fell and never got up, just like my mug.
And it was a good mug.

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