Is it possible to be addicted to sadness and pain? (Wow that might be the most hipster thing I’ve said yet). Perhaps addiction is going a tad too far but I know there is a subtle sweetness and warmth that comes from grief. In fact, thinking about her and reminiscing brings with it a peculiar mix of sensations. It’s not black and white, neither is it oppressingly blue.
It is scarlet and the downward whoosh of a rollercoaster, an uncomfortable but not unwelcome rush of air into the heart (and I know I know it’s the lungs but my heart is swelling instead. Emotions are stubborn and nonsensical that way).
It is dewy and green and I’m sheltered by my umbrella as I watch the grassy fields, a dull tap-tap-tap on my chest aching for the distance between now and back then.
It is golden and brown and pastel yellow, like the blankets over me as I fall fall and fall so slowly to sleep- blurry and hushed and I never want to leave.
Sometimes, unfortunately, it’s also dove grey and I feel numb, and everything is filled to the brim with relentless vacuum. Those times are the hardest, but I’ll get through them so long as it means I get to keep my scarlet and greens and yellow and golds.