Remember when all you ever wanted was all that you have today?
It was all that you had ever envisioned for yourself.
Like a canvas slathered with paints of all hues of emotions, in a room full of critically acclaimed artwork you would’ve still chosen that canvas,
the one that was recklessly slapped with shades of the rainbow.
You loved all of its cheeky yellows and bright blues in all their entirety.
You had promised to always choose the road not taken.
Do you break promises now?
A ‘pinky promise’ was the only thing you treasured more than Riyaaz-the doll you had pledged you would marry in kindergarten.
The neons didnt make you squint back then,
you didn’t hide away and shelter yourself from them, running away the way you do from most things anymore.
I hope you find solace in the monotones of grey you now call your home.
I hope you never realise how lonely a grey can make you feel.
The same palette, just different versions of the artist.
You’ve scraped all remnants of colour from your canvas,yet the hollowing pinks and purple will always remember the agony you felt when you first saw the shiny metal insides of their tin squares sparkle.
The blacks that you now find comfort in, they’re proof that people hold within them, the power of change. You only see red on the heavily cluttered makeup table now.
Yellow,at the break of dawn on your morning run.
Blue,in the needle of your weighing scale that you now use to quantify your worth as a human being. Greens,on the dinner table in great volumes of ‘healthy’.
Yet its only the white you resort to in the end,
the whites of the toilet bowl you press your arms on after meal, flushing with all the ‘nourishing’ greens, the guilt and anxiety.
All gone,
in a second’s worth of time.
Drained along with your self worth.
You suddenly feel something trickle down your cheek,
if ‘feel’ is even the right sensory term for it.
It tastes salty, like the water in Greece you had played in with your father when you were four,
they dont taste like ‘fun’ anymore.
Too numb to even wipe this taste off your cheek,
You sit there in the blacks and greys and the whites of the night,
feeling like the hollowed purples and pinks of your watercolour box.
Yet theres no amalgamation of colour, thats felt like this.
But, I hope you find one soon, soon enough to paint your canvas with before you choose to discard it.
Soon enough to remember that you were once,
a mixture of purples, now blacks and next,
whatever you choose to be.
