Where are the words, what should they be? Swirling colors in my brain. Not joyful ones are spinning, only shades of black and grey. When life is overwhelming what small part is my mind, the colors of the rainbow dim to these two degrees of color, or absence of light. At least grey is partly light. When black comes, it sucks out bits of my existence, reminding me of potential failures, or past. Stings here and there as it takes, claims.
Remember to breathe. Long, deep, sustaining breaths. Air brings in light, soothes the points of the jagged flow, restores peace for the moment of expansion. Blackness is upon the bare branches of the oak just outside, and I should be falling into nothingness. That darkness I welcome, but never know which visions await. Vivid beauty or anguishing sadness? Is rest ever truly thus?
So I ramble on, words dripping off my fingers as the drops in a springstorm, without the gift of rebirth. Not caring to stem the tide, drip by drop, the flood lessens until I am left with a semblance of peace, still damp.
And so, light begins to rise from behind the clouds. With the promise of hope returning, I welcome the nothingness, and with it, peace.