one who writes colour
A letter from a writer who writes colour for the people who reads colour in a now dusty world
Dear You,
Who reads colour
One of those days when you can portend how the world must be doing, better than a fortune teller! In the last few months, we experienced the greatest mad show of our short, pointless lives on earth. My apologies for treating time like a pre-peeled banana in a plastic wrap but my time-place continuum has been deeply distorted by the dint of recent events.
Even after all the hours we’ve lived through, or pretended to live through, there would’ve been myriads of things that we could’ve imagined and still wouldn’t think out lives would be this solo.
That's when I felt a sine qua non for hope. Every ounce of hope has magic don’t you think? Maybe there's no actual magic in it, but when you know what you hope for most and hold it like a light within you, you can make things happen, almost like magic!
I knew someone who, for years, every day waited for a mail which didn’t arrive. They doubted why it didn’t arrive. Did the postal company mess up? Did they have the wrong address, or simply because it got lost? But it never occurred to them that it was never sent to them in the first place.
Because they know it did.
And that my love, is hope.
Like right now, what I hope for a day. a simple day.
I’ll wake up one chilly monsoon morning, get out of my room only to find my neighbour bursting some country music once again while getting ready for work, it has been so quiet lately.
I hope to see my friends only to give them the tightest hug ever invented, without worrying if I sanitized my hands or not. That day I’ll take a walk around the city and step on every puddle by the sidewalk while listening to my favourite audiobook. Later that evening ill visit my favourite cafe by the lake where I like to count the canoes from above. And at the end of the day, I would love to be tired. the happy tired.
Not this kind of tired you know.
When was the last time when you stepped out?
Take this for irony but I’m contemplating us as vectors, who continue to toll in their original directions. With a yearning to meet, and move on in an ordained path. I remember something that Frida Kahlo said about vectors. That there is a cellular arrangement. There is movement. There is light. All centres are the same. Folly doesn’t exist. We are the same as we were and as we will be. Not counting on idiotic destiny. Maybe that's the reason humans wait a lot.
Pardon me, as my digressing letters are full of apologies and desolation. I have seen near a score of years roll over our heads with a heightened forsakenness in the past few months. Well at least the dolphins are having fun in Venice, right?
I'm learning how to be a little more bright and sunny. Until then. I wish that these days bring power and patience to you.
And, lots and lots of hope.
From Me,
Who writes colour.