If The Seasons Were Painted With Colour…
The ebb and flow of the seasons lost its vigor this year.
Hema Nookala, 2020/11/06
The colours were painted by a brush of quiet death and destruction instead.
The reds and yellows of the leaves paled in comparison to the crimson pain gripping the world.
But I know nothing of the world.
I only know myself.
I know myself, wrapped up in the vagaries of my day-to-day life, waking up every morning and forcing myself to remember how to take a breath.
The crisp sweetness of the fall air is tainted by the latent desire to be anywhere but indoors, a burned desperation to escape the four walls.
It’s raw and fierce and only takes me steps away from my front door where nothing is different.
I had thought life was trivial by design, our actions afforded to us by oligopolies that need bodies to run the mills.
But the silence punctuated by computer screens has laid a path of dusty stone that we all must walk.
To push myself from this façade of being alive by breathing is my new goal.
To perceive my actions, not as mistakes, but at threads across a tapestry, incomplete for now, but weaving out a beautiful portrait, is my new purpose.