Canvas

in the beginning, I thought it was black, a mournful color for the deep loss of self that I had during that floundering year. but the more time I spent in the spaces of those who could no longer see light somehow I found a aversion to the shade, as if admitting the dark and giving it ink would strike us.

sometimes they showed it as lavender, a nostalgic wash over an eroded reality. red was depth, just a single drop of blood struck with a blade of ice-pale silver and blue was how they spoke of recovery, a clinical nightmare of tile and gowns.

their colors were beautiful, even I can admit that I wanted to live in their world. but we were, I know now, all the same in our canvas of despair and survivial- and can we blame those who desire to be truly romantic in their sorrow? right now, I can't pretend that I know but I can, at least, attempt to ensure that every single color is as honest as I am capable of being and I do not think it is a coincidence that often, I find myself reaching for black.