Aquarelle

A time when the tread worn streets of my heart rains. A light tap of the piano keys, ivory cascading with the gentle pouring that drenches my soul dry. Here I stand, a rivulet in the streaks of time that mark me awash with beats and spatters of seconds that surpass my aching heart.

Raw and solo, curled up by the window, staring out into the light that usually draws me, yet momentarily, disorients me. Tattered and torn, eyes drooped and barely lifted, gazing ... into a world familiar, yet deeply questionable.

There is relief in the shadows, their greyscale stroking the depths of my fortitude. I can let down my guard here, allow the cooling refuge to unravel my raw voice. A sound that had scattered itself amongst the lost holes and weeds of nature, abandoning itself a little while under the hyper-vigilance of rescue. I seek its remnants now, under rocks, leaf and twig; baking in the sun; echoing across the miles of land that surround me in huge waves, sending my soul bouncing and spinning.

This world, it is so big and to be in it, is to exist in a way that saturates deeply within, allowing it to echo with a comfort that reassures one that they be.

Sometimes, as the eve descends, staring into the sky's dotted glow of aquarelle, an impression of the day's journee, I vanish myself, tearing through the tangled strings of steps that ignite with the pain of a languished linger that reverberates persistently within. Colours bleed, glow and fade, patches of a life that persists even when it is torn apart, tearing deep within. I am at once the dirt, leaf and tree; the multilayered verse of a world the vies for survival amongst the ravish of spring's choice selection.

I reach my hands out in the absence, to those I care for and remember, who smile in the fog and light, their souls safe in other places.

This slow build, like a distorted tune that hums familiarly inside, is it to clutch at? Or bury myself into? How do I saturate myself into its gradual saturation that my body absorbs so hungrily, like a well of couleur, ready to adorn my stripped canvas. Aquarelle, please, just aquarelle in its mixes, blurs, streaks and softness, let it repaint this very moment, while it happens, anew with shades of hope that eyes still shine amongst the darkened chaos.

Raw yet wise, filled with shades of past treads with familiar faces, in a world that dawned with growth and life. This ache within, a small grace, left to remind me of those bonds and times when ...

...

Small aquarelle steps outside, it is Spring and life continues. I hear the chorus of nature around me as the sun soaks my skin. A surrounding cacophany of rhythms that flicker deeply in my soul, attempting to relight that match, that was struck and blown out, yet waited that new chance.

In this light, piercing, setting me squinting, yet here, I know I find my permanence. No matter what shade, or tone, or glare, it will always help me to be, adorning my world with just the right shadows and darkness to discover myself in.

And in those moments I stop, my soul saturates itself in the aquarelle of the beauty of love and life, that begin to reconstruct and repattern their fragments inside me now, alighting me once more, deeply within.

Aquarelle, please, just give me aquarelle. I will always carry these fragments deeply within my soul and relive them again and again, through the echoes of ever-shifting time.