It Always Starts Off The Same.
It always starts off the same.
A sneaking sensation, a thought that lays adrift. It always creeps up on me on blue days but never on the yellow ones.
It always ends the same too.
Never enough courage, the procrastination of what I may or may not want. It never fails to repeat the process.
On the blue days I sit and wonder what I've done wrong. I know I haven't but the blue days tell me otherwise. They always whisper, never shout, so that no one else may hear. I never reply and it makes the blue days even more frustrated as it grows bigger and bigger like a beast ferociously attacking its prey. Its dominance hovering me like the teeth of a dragon clasped onto my calf.
On the yellow days, the dragon is gone but the wound is still there, deep, raw, and red. It had marked its territory. It owns me and I am its slave ready to serve It at any given time. It waits until the blue day reappears, drooling and hungry, temptation running through its veins.
Navy blue sweeps through my core and I am no longer with a dragon but perhaps the devil himself. He too whispers but his whispers sound like ominous cries inside my head. Echoing inside this lonely chamber that keeps repeating, repeating, repeating and repeating until I come close to the reward He wants. I never give in and I still haven't figured out why. Perhaps Angel's cry out in hope to stop this madness. If they choose to stop me, why haven't they concluded the devil's work? Why must He come on navy blue days? Always always always. Repeating repeating repeating and repeating.
I shut him up and he doesnt seem too happy. There is no hope for me. Angel's give an uproar and demand that I be blessed and set free but He frowned and didnt agree.
Holy water is given only on the yellow days and I greedily drink until there is none to spare. The bottle now dry. Water drips down my stomach and i try to catch it from falling. I mustn't waste even a single drop. I save this all but sooner or later it must be absorbed and used up. The yellow day looking more and more dim.
A mixture of different liquids stored inside a bottle of wine is given to me on the blue days. I must accept what I've been given and that too, I eagerly gulp. It tastes of the past and rock salt stored in the depths of the ocean that lays in my mind. Crashing and swaying, crashing and swaying. I drink and I drink. I refuse to give in. I refuse to get drunk. The liquid runs down my chin and I too, catch every single drop. I always catch the drops.
I'm always parched on the yellow days. Always coughing on the blue days. My dry throat cracks and dusts every time I speak. I eagerly wait for the next beverage. Excited and jumping up and down for the next. It's not about the taste it's about the texture, how it feels. I want to feel the yellow days, I want to feel the blue days but they always leave me parched, and when the next bottle comes I run after it like a lost child yearning for their mother. My hand closes in desperation around the bottle, my tounge already swirming for the liquid, I gasp out for dry air as I place the bottle to my cracked lips. I can feel the liquid enter my stomach, the new and cool sensation still leaves me breathless even to this day. Once I get that moment, that journey, that challenge, that sip. It always starts off the same.