“Oh, take this veil from off my eyes
My burning sun will, some day, rise
So, what am I gonna be doin’ for a while?”
The blue tiles reflect my eyes when I sit in the empty bathtub writing in a tiny book. The yellow lights make it seem like I’m drowning in my favourite colour- the green of the violent sea. I fill pages after pages, day after day, with my legs cramped up in a way that helps me think. Then on a day I try to not think too much, I wondered why the same words I scribble on the platinum white sheets, seem depthless when they flow from a place besides my bathroom floor. It was a habit, and a necessity, now. Sometime after, I stopped wondering and with that end came a new beginning. It became less essential to make sense than it became to articulate the emotions better, the ones who felt it would understand, ambiguity be damned.
And, for what did I spill and spill words and rhymes and semi-lyrical propaganda? It has never been about making a difference, but has always been about healing, whether my own or that of a fellow sufferer. Everytime I find myself facing the same blue walls, reflecting the same brown eyes and breathing in the same green ocean, it becomes a little clearer. It has never been about anybody else, it has always been about me. I’ll admit that made me feel terribly guilty and I almost took down this blog. Then, a good friend told me that my writing had never been for anybody else, and that it had always been for me, as it should be. The guilt went onto the back-burner and I was back at contemplation, my most favoured state for good writing. And then, we flowed.
Last winter, I placed a flower pot at one end of the bathtub. It calmed me down, the fake petals blooming in vibrant colours. It was a relief to know the facade wasn’t just a human drawback. I have never really had friends who have been interested in what I write of or about. There has never been anybody who wanted to know why I use colours to describe emotions, why my metaphors make me cry, or why I wake up in the middle of the night to write because my mind can’t keep the restless thoughts inside. There have never been questions, and yet I recite the answers every chance I get, my fingers counting sentences and my lips mimicking the silence. Whoever said self-assurance was a lie, lied.
The ink is almost over, the indigo threatening to fade out. On the days I don’t write, I notice things I can’t otherwise. With the yellow lights dimming and my fingers running along the chips in the tile, the chain of thought breaks and I close the book, willing myself to see, to observe. Call it silly, but this time when I look over, the phoney flowers rise higher in a boastful, regal red and the eyes that look back at me from the aquamarine seeping in, twinkle with hope, letting go of things that are not meant to be.