Not as vibrant as the winking sky, and not as dull as the stark space before the downpour. It is neither comforting nor bathed in gloom.
Just that it is a wave of confusion and of melancholy, of echoes and of emptiness.
Not depression, definitetly not depression.
Depression is the color of Rose Madder's putrefying skin.
It's just like the eyes of a newborn child. It is null for the infant cannot see yet, not until it reaches its fourty-eighth day.
Bright as the smoldering sun, but stark as the vivid waters of the Marianas. The fathoms below unfathomed, yet void. It contains things that haven't been found, lost within the Trench's folds.
Neither one of these little creatures have been found nor discovered. It remains hidden, trapped in an eternal hide and seek.
The thoughts that circle my mind forces me to succumb into such a tincture molded by nature. The thoughts that no one can decipher floats and floats and floats rhythmically. It tampers the color that is currently in my grasps, stealing me away from it, masking me with such a force I cannot writhe. It is infectious, but not enough to burn bridges. It is irksome, but not enough to cause rage.
It is the color that serves me answers to questions I have asked during the days I am molten. It is the color that reminds me all of the mistakes that I have done. The color that tells me not to succumb into the purtefying skin of Rose Madder.
Albeit it sucks all the happiness in me, it helps me realize that I need not another person to tell me what I already know. I need not another person who is too sucked in to the lies of society to tell me everything will pass in a matter of a wink.
It is the color that saves me every time a thought summons Rose Madder.
YOU ARE READING
WARNING: I am full of shit
Teen FictionA series of short stories, poetry, and one-shots that are correlated with my thoughts, feelings, and short musings. These may be written in first person, second person, or third person basis. A journal---sort of---that deals with memories and though...
