At my best, I’m a bright yellowed orange–intellectually flirtatious, innovative, erotic and heated.
My breadths are muddied smoky violet; thought is there yet massed. Experiencing my life via misunderstand, misrepresented feelings; stumbling through the downdraft of my panic set afire. How closely correlated are mysticism and psychosis? My supposes show in the physical–am I now for real?
The pit of hollow is navy blue. It stagnates and suffocates, icing over the heart. All I can see is myself. All I can feel is my fear. Two steps down into black, where my chemical dependency takes ahold of me. Love cannot be where addiction prowls.
I want to get back to the days of the pinks, violets and baby blues–the gold flickers in my spirit. I miss crying over beautiful sunsets, interpreting God broadcast before me in the infinite space of sky. The unfathomable alternatives are above us if we reach and deter swimming.
This I tell myself daily.
While I may be smoky violet at the moment–lost in cloudy delusion, detached from intuition–I have the potential for rainbows. So do you. We are all the colors.
Hold tight, my beloved. And stay where you are so you can see.
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