They say to live day by day; but as each moment passes I feel less clear about the previous. Mixing it up like a bucket of paint and watching the colors dilute. I felt sorrowful and melancholy these days with no apparent reason. Scratching words onto paper seemed to soothe that itch for passion deep within me that held no outlet in my life: no faucet for out-pour. Though I craved that person who could pose a smile or a brush against my frame to fill me up further; and allow me to vent what I held deep inside.
If my colors were paint I would call them eggshell white – listless and unoriginal; somewhat useless. Grey of the Sky at Thunder: sometimes lit with anxiety or confusion – questions; never fully apprehending the space around. And yellow. Not the beautiful sunny yellow painted upon a newborns wall, whose parents decided the sex of their child held no meaning until birth, but the yellow of a longing lingering pain – the color of nicotine stained teeth and skin riddled with jaundice. The color of old paper, its light and meaning fading in air and time.
I held dear the mementos each other would have thrown out: movie tickets, littered tee shirts, perfume which had now become alcohol and directly resembled eau d’toilette. I smiled wistfully at the thought. But no one else ever would.
They call it depression but I call it art. Those who have felt this way directly understand the relation between melancholy and the expression of the folds deep inside which hold so much. The pages can not be turned by another soul; just a scab scratched on a whim and thoroughly regretted as you felt the blood ooze unremorsefully.
I took habit to creating my own reality; one which none could enter – a sanctuary. A beautiful home in which butterflies could roam and never die.
And to this I say amen.