I am perfect in the sunlight,
with my shadow steeped in shade.
I close my eyes and dance beneath
the dazzle of the rays, the way they
fall across my eyelids, making patterns
out of space- like I am twirling in the wind
beneath a many-colored rain.
I am perfect in the umbra too,
when everything is still.
The monochrome of darkess paints
a rainbow that I fill with all the hues that
frame the nightfall, a study stained in ink-
a kalidascope of moments I've been
slowly coloring in-
and now I'm perfect here in stasis,
on the cusp of the eclipse.
a reflexive photosynthesis fuels the way I live across
the spectrum of the infrared, the ultra violet rays-
I am vivid, I am brilliant, I'm a pigment unafraid of
being washed away.
About the Creator
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Where there's Art there's Heart
Here's a stupid thing: I adore art, but I start to panic whenever I step into a gallery. In the one place I should be at my contented best - surrounded by walls teeming with creative expression - I fall apart. What ought to be an enriching experience, tacitly designed to facilitate the exploration of human empathy and perspective, is for me an overwhelming purgatory of anxiety that compresses me to the point I cannot breathe. At the same time, I experience a sense of extraction, as though my head is being prized open to create a hole so big my sanity could evaporate. Somewhere between these two opposing forces of vice and vortex, I feel myself dissolving in a stream of panic that makes me want to cry; and I feel so daft feeling this way, that all I want to do is run for the hills.
By Caroline Janea day ago in Humans
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