Take a picture, it might last longer.
Clashing colors of youth and age.
In this body of mine where my youth and tomorrow are housed, I become a motley of myself.
Every impulse, Decision, Whether righteous or reckless, Gets stroked onto these years that I cannot undo.
Because with freedom as colorful as this, You cant help but be Glittery and dark and grey and iridescent and sea foam green.
Almost like a kaleidoscope; Reflections and illusions of the days I have yet to live. Becoming more of myself and the woman they assumed I'd be.
And sometimes I am not aesthetically pleasing. There are hues of me I have yet to learn how to erase or blend. I've added shades that accent the woman I want to be. But you can tell I'm making it up as I go, Because I am.
What a strange swatch.
Isn't growing up bold and primary? Doesn't leaving youth feel like being handed a thousand paint brushes and being told to fill a museum with your art?
How chaotic and graphic is the animation of woman's age?
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