A Rope Made of All Colors

There was a fine rain curtain

hanging on my window

on a day that dawned gray.

The whole landscape behind a blurred glass.

Moisture was visible to the eyes,

it kind of felt on the bones.

The silence,

was so deep.

Each noise echo arriving

from the other side of the planet.

Whites and grays. Damp and haze.

In my room, oh in my room, white as well,

objects were shining in the bleached extent.

A still endless book never opened again.

A basket of blue clothes, not waiting to be folded.

A picture of grandpa with his black indigenous hair.

A childish-looking purple pencil case that I’ve had since a girl.

A wood-colored guitar resting on the wall.

A red cap dusted Moleskine that kept all my thoughts.

The rest,

just like outside,

was all white.

Scary.

A faded cup of tea.

A sad collection of broken seashells.

A mirror repeating all over again,

like an endless universe.

I contemplated all that,

the absolute nothing,

with a glassy gaze.

My eyes found no rest,

and my feeling,

that feeling,

of a whole scenery

growing big over me.

If it wasn’t for the few colors in the room,

my mind would have been extinct I presume,

on that tricky milky ocean.

I always had the feeling that colors exist to save us,

to connect us to something,

to some things.

So there I was,

being hold by them from fading.

A cold wind connected me to the earth,

coming through the window and finding my derm.

I heard some birds that seemed to sing,

the silence itself.

The air that I breathed in and out

was running slowly through my lungs,

before leaving my body again and again.

Every detail was highlighted

among that white confusing desert.

I had the impression of listening to waves

from a specific kind of blue distant ocean,

so I faded into a dream escaping this world,

bathing my soul in the yellow sun.

But even so, white found me again,

and a white world is not safe,

my indigenous grandpa said.

You, throw me a rope made of all colors.