You are not really present, although physically present.
Your ears do not decipher that code of nonsensical chatter: the laughs, and tears; the dynamics in the jumbled world of octaves that raise from high to low and low to high - carcophony to your ears. You are lost in the cosmos of perfect sound: every melody perfectly composed, fitting like a puzzle.
But reality is simple. The raw sound of crying, crazed screaming and sirens begin to leak in through your ears, murky waters flooding your head. Under - under, the feather-hard fort of your blankets, you cower, sobbing into a pillow, in the desperate state to mute your voice in this hell.
Those who are supposed to care the most are at war. You do not want to let go to either but you are being torn between the worlds. Little are they aware of your pain. The questions want to ask are bottled up. You secretly apologise to everything you have done, but you've done nothing wrong.
Outside, you are admired, loved by your friends. They do not know what has happened to you, you do not think they can help, but they want to. Confusion mixes murky waters.
Inside you are as fragile as the broken shards of a mirror, trying to keep in one piece. Let us keep that simple.
The crickets chirrup quietly in the night and the moon with pearly lustre seen from the sorry earth sails across the star-flecked skies. The piano is playing Nocturne. The sounds are irregular but the pianist goes on, not noticing the broken strings stretched within.