Reluctantly the steps are taken towards a new frame of mind. One devoid of the poison of weakness. There's a trepidation about the unfamiliar, so we continue to stew in unhealthy ways.
Purple floats a dance, airy and morose. A color both vibrant and sad. It is the color of shadow and bruises. And like a musical note, this feeling hangs in the crisp air, surrounded by the echo of impossibility. Still it comes, slowly at first, but eventually finding rhythm within that chaotic cascade. And the shadow, like all things cyclical, gives way to the impression of oneself. Whatever the predisposition, that sun will rise again.
And so, despite a soggy morning, I wake. Open and uncross my eyes. Square my shoulders and scream into the abyss that I am ready for a change.
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