A Prismatic Hunger

Please, give me some color. I cannot stand the shadows and the deception, the pretense, the false semblance. The same pale, tasteless consent and dull compliance. Tell me there are different shades of gray, that the world is within and without and that it would cease to exist without its painted intricacies. That the perceived can embody both good and evil, but that they aren't the same shade, not at all. Help me see the difference between crimson and red, olive and sage, yellow and gold. Let me unearth the strange intensities, the deluging iridescence, the hues and tints and glows. I'm so sick of black and white. So set me free, let me go.

Rain Through the Looking Glass

Slippery shoes against the marble as we sit on the long wooden benches, looking about us as if we have just been born. Our whispers echo off the cavernous walls. We sense we are intruders on this glorious abyss and our voices instinctually taper off. A silence spreads itself over us, muting our thoughts, our heartbeats, our mindless fidgeting, if only for a moment, but in that moment time stands still. We listen, there is nothing. We strain our ears, searching for something we can use to prove to ourselves that it hasn't all stopped. It comes to us from a great distance, almost inaudible, dampened by the sheer volume of the silence.

A sound like no other, a sound we would know anywhere. The sound
of rain.

The drops, they hit the rough surface of the stained glass, reflecting prisms of color through the silence. That which is so deep we'd have to wade through it. The faint echo of the rain slowly fades away, till we are left with a true absence of sound. And we sit and listen to that absence.

Those Days, So Far Away

That was really insensitive, he said.

Insensitive?
Is that all that remains from the memory that brings back the ecstasy of my childhood? That's certainly not how I remember it--it was always a sort of carefree joy unleashed from the soul, for young souls have the least experience but know the most about the intensity of the truth, even if they can't fully understand it. Me and my sis, twirling around in circles in the white light of the morning, spinning to the music that starts as part of the air and soon becomes a part of us. The elation, the rapture, the wonder of those morning hours. Then, it was as much a part of us as our fingers, our toes, our faces, our hearts. It was what we did, it was what we lived for. Apparently it's now different.

I thought maybe you'd remember those days we used to dance, I reply.

A Knock on Inspiration's Door

Dear You,

You know who you are, and it's been awhile. You've been off capturing the flags of the world, partaking in the grand scheme of this compelling and disparaging race of humanity while I sit in this green room, sheltered from those very consummations and iniquities. I've felt your absence as one can only fully appreciate something once it is lost.

It's now I realize your charm, a mystical sense of acquiescence, where life is just an illusion when time stands still.

But now you're back. I will admit I've missed you, probably more than I should. Please, please, don't go away.

All the best,
Now and always,
Me.