Thursday, October 28, 1999 in I Forgot To Pick A Category

colours

Colors.

I don’t believe in auras, but the word fits with what I want to describe, so I’ll use it. I do think of certain colors when I see certain people in my mind’s eye. I have my own colors. Not ones the necessarily look good on me, but ones evoking feelings and emotions. That’s what I mean.

My world is a visual world, that’s why the words, those hard, defined *things* are so hard to express. Let’s use colors instead, shall we? I see them inside and out.

I used to be black.
Black for sin.
Pain.
Nothingness.
Emptyness.
Block it out.

I used to be red.
Red is pain.
Blood.
Passion.
Rage.
Lust.
Scream.
Fire.
Hate.
A daily death.

Blue was there.
Blue is sadness.
Bruises.
Tears.
Icy cold.

My colors have changed.
Crystalized like a butterfly.
Morphed.
Tempered in the fire.

They have grown into Green.
Growth.
Survival.
Change.
Rebirth.
The color of spring.
Kermit the frog, who is happy being just a frog.

The edges are White.
Floating.
Peaceful.
Tranquil.
Lazy clouds on a summer’s day.

Pink makes an appearance.
Warmth.
Laughter.
Children.
Love.

And an underlining of Yellow.
Smiles.
Hope.

A rainbow of colors, tumbling in the kaleidoscope. The old colors no longer the dominant ones in the scheme. Fading to shadows of their former selves, the new colors bright, painting over the old.

Wednesday, October 20, 1999 in I Forgot To Pick A Category

apathetic

Apathetic is the word of the week.
I seem to have lost my fire for just about everything. Just floating along, doing the bare minimum required. I don’t want to do anything anymore. Oh, to be back in the days when the kids were smaller, when choices were easier, when there was a smaller list of things to do.

I’m tired of the store.
I’m tired of working on that stupid catalogue.
I’m tired of erasing schoolbooks.
I’m tired of the girls being underfoot all day.
I’m tired of repeating myself.
I’m tired of picking up after everyone else.
I’m tired of an unfinished house.
I’m tired of “making do”.
I’m tired of clothes that don’t fit.
I’m tired of looking dumpy, just like a housewife.
I’m even tired of food, but not tired of eating.

And yet, to do any different seems to require Herculean effort. A compromise of ideals. A giving in.

And so I plod on.