When I would close my eyes, a patterned grey image would envelope my sight with fire flowers painted in black. Till a certain age, I could not demarcate between them. The colours—Were they grey with black or black with grey?—I could never tell.
The paradise in my mind was often coloured lush green, as if it were imagined as sweeping fields of dandelions, with tiny specks of wishes floating still under the everlasting blue. A whiff that shifts with a light breeze, gradually dissolving itself with its disposition, absolving, creating ripples that elevate into the clouds above. A perpetual process that keeps repeating as if stalled in the chords of time—a symphonious flow and ebb of the stream—drifting indiscreet and incandescent in an emerald field.
In profoundness of my consciousness, a certain realm of galaxies, definite constellations, and mystifying stars intervenes with its inescapability. Lapsing through invisible planes and unexplored dimensions, flocking at once, in faraway places. Sometimes silver sometimes blue, I argue.
My displaced conscience wandered through flashbacks but is framed neatly on deformed walls of my mind. Cimmerian places, silhouettes, identities that were once noted, and the intimate quaint spaces have cluttered my subconscious. If air could enter, everything would flutter and if water would enter, everything could float—leaving behind trails of colours—much like the trail left by ocean-drawn iridescence interfering with sunlight.
A touch so warm, gently sweeping away the coldness. Carving. Piercing through her flesh, reaching to the bones, and marking his very kingdom. Awakening. Flickers seep deep into the innermost beliefs, sparkling away into her spirit. Air of perplexities cloaks her sight: her world is metamorphosed into an abode of unceasing love.
Soon, the patterns amplify morphing from grey to red and back to black—stuck in a cycle—dissolving and emerging, till the darkness is conquered by the light.
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