There are times, when I’m playing a muse, letting myself being | Рассеянные заметки

There are times, when I’m playing a muse, letting myself being wanted, adored, hunted, and than letting myself to run, because it would never be enough. This process is a fine imitation of love. This life imitates art. Which all are almost an illusion, and can’t be caught. It feels like a déjà vu, like a scent of the perfume, that can’t be recorded, or reproduced in the same manner once again. My mind puts me in a trap. I fall into a muse once again. The process of balancing between the cherishing illusions and destroying them are making me totally out of my mind. Am I fooling myself again? Am I putting myself into the trouble? Dear, agony, you’re the one, who would never leaves me alone. In the end of the day I’m imprisoned by my own expectations of what this life is supposed to be.