I breathe out a warm vapour filled with sighs, as the air collected in my lungs smell strongly of heartstopping grief. I'm sitting inside these four walls, soaking my mind in peace. The woodland of emotions, that has grown right within my mind, is growing dense by every passing moment.
I'm a mess made out of burnt candle threads, ink wasted on crumpled papers and all the thoughts a person doesn't want to keep. Even when my saltbox house is drowned in the afternoon silence, my mind's dripping with chaos.
My room's semi-dark. All the windows are closed and there are creaks of tiptoeing proses, dressed in wrinkled paper, on the floor. There's a paper on the table with lots of blanks between the words, and the candlelight is frozen over it like set wax.
The world outside the window has daubed itself in russet, lovat and gold, but I'm an artist who chose to paint the leaves with mauve, sunflowers with blue and the stalk remained colourless out of my indecision.
Just like a maple leaf through a freefall breaks the mirror sheet of a lake into thousands of ripples, a single insecurity, burning red, makes me a clutter of brokenness. I've been insecure about my perfect things, insecure about them getting lost in changing times. Afraid of misunderstandings, afraid of miscommunications. For I knew, if I lose them, I'd have to find myself again, I'd have to trust myself again.
But now I feel like I can't hold their strings forever, I guess I never had my fingers clutching them. All I had was faith and a little hope in my palms, and they coloured my hands in calluses brown as coffee seeds, which linger like a feeling, bittersweet.
As I take the noose of insecurities off my neck, I drape a lilac sequin fabric around my bruised hope. My skin, coffee-stained, my eyes pristine after the rain, glimmering in the candlelight.