Lovely Destinations

White.

People seem to mistake whites counterpart, black, as the void, when in reality it's white that is empty. A barren color, a barren emotion. White is as a blank canvas, pure of color, virgin of paint. White is the true void. Desolate and untouched. The unalloyed numbness that seemingly sweeps through my veins like a drug.

White like the lines running along the table promising to wash me away. White like the blinding light at the end of the tunnel jerking you out of the great divide and dragging you back to life. White like the color of his lies as he whispers sweet nothings into the darkness.

White is the true void. It's the noise the fills my insides and flows through my veins, stealing my mortality. I walk above the ocean in white, invincible to the waves. I walk through fire in white, numb to the licking flames. I face her in white, deaf to the insults slurred. White is a shield. An escape to a place of nothingness. Into the abyss with white, drifting into a space reflecting light and emotions.

White is death. White is when you're too far gone to reel back into the hurricane of your life. White is when maps of scars are etched. White is when knots of release are tied. White is death. Quiet. Numb.