[Oops! Forgot to post this last night! This is yesterday’s writing]
Purple: such a confused colour. Half way between blue: depression, and red: anger. Purple must be manic depressive. Who wants to be purple? Everyone wants to be green or yellow but purple is always forgotten on the sidelines.
Hopes, dreams, a future: all flushed down the gutter with the rain that fell and flooded the lawn. A shred of a plan is lying over there on the grass. When the rain stops, I will pick it up.
Hurry, quick, no time to lose, I’m out of food! Get up get up, meow meow meow. Jump on the bed, bat at your face. My bowl is empty, can’t you see? Get up, get up, feed me. You won’t sleep until I’ve eaten, I promise you that!
She lifted her eyes towards the horizon, watching as the birds flitted and danced across the sky as she always dreamed she could. Looking back at the crutches propped by her bed, she felt the first stinging tears fill her eyes. “Lift me up,” she prayed.
Today I am free from the restraints of other’s perceptions and expectations. Today I am free of guilt, worry, indecision and shame. Today I am free of judgment, anger and blame.
Today I haven’t actually gotten up yet, so these are subject to change…
Faces worn like masks between two people who dance about the real issues, neither daring to broach the subject really on their minds.
It’s like a masquerade, each playing a part without wanting to reveal their own while trying to pick apart the other’s.
He looked into that vast emptiness of eternity and closed his eyes. It was too much to even begin to comprehend let alone consider in minute detail. The intricacies of such a thing, or rather, lack of a thing, was enough to send his mind into a dizzying sickness like suffering from vertigo, had he a body in which to be in that position.
A three bedroom, two bath rambler in a middle-class subdivision; a truck bed with straw for a pillow and a blanket of stars; a structure of bundled sticks and woven grass where the chickens lounge in the dust of the doorway; a cardboard box in a lonely alley away from the normal police routes; a double-wide with a sagging deck and the confederate flag in the bedroom window; studio apartment barely large enough for a bed but with a breathtaking view of the cityscape; your eyes, your heart, your soul: where ever these are, I am home.
She kicked off her shoes, hiked up her skirt and ran out into the deluge, singing blessings to the end of the drought that had killed almost twenty percent of her village. Never had mud on her feet felt more sweet.