Where is the enchantment we are meant for? Where is the sharp pain of beauty so bright and bold we shake in our souls to see it?
We try to share our stories, bled out in paper veins, connecting the pulsing channels that should tie us to one another. But we lose the connection, severed sentences that dry us into machines, automatic thoughts, acceptable feeling.
Fade to gray, the clouds come in, rolling over the air that stretched our breath, our own unique desire for something brighter than this world offers.
It is a continual search of soul that comes up empty. A numbness that settles where our hearts should be, and in the disintegration of color, muted life dulls our dreaming eyes. We set our sights on the horizon, only to find a wall the height of sky instead. Unable to pass. The only life left in our bones is a dull throbbing that pulses every few seconds, reminding us to somehow hold on.
Hold on. So color can come again. So imagination can rise, rested and ready to captivate this world once again. So we can dream with eyes wide open, paint our canvas full and aching.
For the sake of your soul, hold on.