Below is something I wrote for a friend a few weeks back.
As a drop of darkness seeped out of my vein and splattered over my existence and the very abyss of my soul, I whispered the same question again: is my darkness same as yours?
I see a drop of white oozing out of a wall of my room and slowly covering every inch of it. The calm, the poignant white.
I shuffle through the watercolour paintings I made as a child. Delicate little bird ready to fly; a leaf about to die. I stopped being a dreamer when my mother stopped having time.
We are no longer permitted to have favourite colours. We are adults. But once upon a time, green was yours and blue was mine. Your voice melted whenever you read poetry. Like a scoop of blue mixed with a scoop of green. Green is a kind of blue.
What is the colour of chaos? Of madness? What is it like to be blind! Pools of dark has now started to seep out from the whites of the walls.
Like liquid fire, thick black fluid trickles down my veins and my skin. It meets the darkness splashing out from the surface of the walls. Cortisol in my blood goes up. Colour goes out.