Oh, so many precarious moments – teardrops hanging from the fine criss-crossing cords that weave our days – and all it takes is a blink, and you hurtle down the spiral of meaninglessness. But snap, thank the universe, because suddenly, I see through the tears – salty spectrum – a myriad of colors vibrating across the blackness. Is this what meaning is? I try to create my dreams but I can’t even draw a sun on most days. I pick up the yellow crayon anyway. Metaphorically speaking of course. Literally too, now that I think about it. It sucks sometimes that I’m a picker of crayons bc. But I digress. I sit and try to create tantalizing images, beautiful scenes, peaceful ordinary moments (even though it’s hard, with the cynic chewing on my fingers). It’s so much easier to draw black instead. I know that. I’m a pro. It’s so natural. It’s so much more delicious too, to be honest. My shadow is all for a caricature of itself. But I’ve dared to dream in color now and I feel like I’ve seen it all before. So even on days when I can’t seem to remember shit, I pick up the crayon, remembering that warm, beautiful feeling I’ve come to recognize and love. Wet eyes, open heart, I draw a yellow blob, imagining myself on a solitary, sunny day with a good book, some hash, and a hundred and eighty dried pinecones on the grass. I feel genuinely alive. 

~ by aesha on July 11, 2017.

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