This will be simple, because I only want to record the colors that I see. I am grateful for my senses, however harsh the data that they send to me and I want to mention that I am thankful for the pane of glass that’s separating the rain from my skin. The leaves are new and they’re perfectly green. Any light that’s coming through the grey (oh, grey, oh my favorite lovely thing) is glittering and blurred like stars and I wish I could tell you but I have to hold my secrets like stones, like pebbles that our son has found outside. He gathers them up and tells me to put them in my purse, and when my purse is heavy, I pour them all in a jar that I keep in a dresser drawer.
To say that I am anxious would be putting my words into something less than what they are. The truth of the matter is that I’m having what’s commonly known as an absence of an existential crisis. My head is a reptile, and seeks out the sun incessantly before slinking back under its mossy rock.
My sweater is damp, my leggings are soaked through and my shoes are super-saturated. My eyeliner is smeared and my lipstick has bled onto to my front two teeth, which have a substantial space between them. The walks I take fill my head with air and pollen and fill all the dark spaces with green and blue. If they seem excessive it’s because there’s a lot of dark purple mess inside, and I want to cough it out.
I had a dream last night of a museum with polished concrete floors, burnished copper and gold. There was an expanse, a clearing of air. There were beams of light with fairy specks of dust shining on the charcoal-painted walls. The frames around the art were gilded gold and even my saddest thoughts didn’t speak above a whisper.