There’s no greater satisfaction than reading hearing one putting your ideas and thoughts and sentiments which you’ve had in your brain and soul unorganised in a beautiful prose.
I should think about death, think about death so that I decide how to feel about it when she arrives to anyone I love. I had forgotten death existed as I had forgotten about life. Vacuum, Time. Time and space of a third world dimension had swallowed us. All we are is a downward journey through the throat.
I cannot write beautiful words. I cannot express myself in English. I am weak. I cannot express myself at all. She left us too soon. With her words. Her prose her Grief. I weeped, silently, as I read her Grief.
It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.
I pain(t) on my whiteness until all fade to black. Until my shadows find a place to elongate. My hands are stiff once holding my brush but my fingers are lenient and are able to flush away all the awe not yet put on my canvas, not yet colorized, not yet pain(t)ed.
We all fade to black, black is a color, I am longing for my own color in black.