Words are still lost, meanings still declined. The realities shift, they change. I am thankful that the dreams are still my own. They sold my soul, they took my name but the mask still hangs on to the face. Over the years, it has changed- a Rorschach of black blobs. It is the only color that has fascinated me since the very start. I have seen kids playing- arguing over the best color which is there but black never figured on their list. Maybe because it isn’t a true color after all, it is their absence. But it reaches where even light falls short.
This color has very conflicting connotations. None of the colors has so many different meanings, and so many opposed ideas. On one hand, black is the color of death, and on the other, it represents individuality. If black represents fear and darkness, it can be mysterious and sophisticated. It is authority and also humility, the sin and the holiness, rebellion and conformity, wealth and poverty, good and bad. But trust me, when I see black, I always see the dark side.
Maybe that is why I always try to hold back my tears. They might smear the mask, if light falls, the colorless drops of water might become a rainbow. The red of love, the blue of pride, the green of peace. If light doesn’t befall, it still is white- the color of hope. Hope is costly. I know, I’ve tread on its vestiges.
Nostalgia defines, memories, they bind. I drain them every single day, but the next morning they return. I try to fight them, the daemons, but they I can see them growing stronger. I can feel them, can sense them and have I tried defeating them. But it’s getting harder. The night is getting colder.
It’s getting dark, too dark to see.

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