stella
Someone poured a bucket of cold, grey water from the skies and it painted our windows in ash-coloured patterns.
I look for simple metaphors to describe dirt and mud that sticks resolutely to the glass between four white (or rather white-ish) frames. Smoke is grey too although, it is spiralling upwards and blending into winter sky that looks exactly like canvas or silk, perhaps (it is, after all, full of creases and regular, calm waves). Even our music is gray. We see images of rainy days and there are no blues, or whites, or even transparent shapes whose contours can be seen only if one squints a little.
Then there are our yellows. They look like acid spots. They resemble oily stains or lemons in dark-green boxes. There is something that looks like sun (actually, it is precisely like the view you see when you open your eyes in the morning and everyting is unclear, not-yet-there, still in the process of becoming substantial). Our chopsticks are yellow and so are our pencils. Green tea with lemon juice is sickly yellowish.
There are my reds. Almost all books are painted with this colour of passion. My reds are those of frozen cheeks, cuts made by paper edges, eyes deprived of sleep. My reds are those of tinges of various feelings (of course, they sometimes become orange - when in rage, violet - when in melancholy, or pink - when in joy).
My blacks are those which surround me the most. And though it may look sad, troublesome or depressing, they still manage to gather some warmth (like sunrays in summer).
Only recently someone has painted my windows black. It has not managed yet to make me colourblind.
I hope it never will.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that witnin me there lay an invncible summer.
[mono - yearning]
I look for simple metaphors to describe dirt and mud that sticks resolutely to the glass between four white (or rather white-ish) frames. Smoke is grey too although, it is spiralling upwards and blending into winter sky that looks exactly like canvas or silk, perhaps (it is, after all, full of creases and regular, calm waves). Even our music is gray. We see images of rainy days and there are no blues, or whites, or even transparent shapes whose contours can be seen only if one squints a little.
Then there are our yellows. They look like acid spots. They resemble oily stains or lemons in dark-green boxes. There is something that looks like sun (actually, it is precisely like the view you see when you open your eyes in the morning and everyting is unclear, not-yet-there, still in the process of becoming substantial). Our chopsticks are yellow and so are our pencils. Green tea with lemon juice is sickly yellowish.
There are my reds. Almost all books are painted with this colour of passion. My reds are those of frozen cheeks, cuts made by paper edges, eyes deprived of sleep. My reds are those of tinges of various feelings (of course, they sometimes become orange - when in rage, violet - when in melancholy, or pink - when in joy).
My blacks are those which surround me the most. And though it may look sad, troublesome or depressing, they still manage to gather some warmth (like sunrays in summer).
Only recently someone has painted my windows black. It has not managed yet to make me colourblind.
I hope it never will.
In the depth of winter, I finally learned that witnin me there lay an invncible summer.
[mono - yearning]