Blue Is Not My Favourite Colour
So why is my name Blue? In my eyes, blue exists in opposite extremes of each other; these is so much blue found in nature, yet blue dyed hair is deemed the most unnatural. The sky kissing the earth through the horizon, with the seas reflecting their passionate embrace through its waves. Strokes of copper phthalocyanine seeped onto a folded piece of parchment, evidence of one’s innermost thoughts stained into existence. It’s the splotch of ink that you hopelessly try to scrub off from the sleeves of your high school uniform. It’s the piercing gaze that you avoid staring at for too long. It’s the aching feeling settling at the hollows of your chest, and the endless field you tilt your head up to that reminds you that everything will be okay.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that my writing exists only in extremities. I don’t know how to write without bleeding out my entire heart onto the page, or nullify my emotions into something palatable for those with a neutral taste. I hate it sometimes, but I also don’t know how to live any other way. Is there a cure-all for all of this? SSRIs, antidepressants, vices, journaling, etc. I’ve tried it all, and yet I still can’t help myself from feeling so so much. I can’t help myself from existing so vividly, and find my existence reflected back in scattered fragments around me.
From the rivers of my mind,
Blue
ੈ𑁍༘⋆°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･