Bleeding Colours

A haibun

I’ve been given glasses by words written in high contrast I flitted through. No, this is false accusation. My choices and senses led me here. The ends of the colour spectrums are screaming at each other and at me when I allowed myself to be pulled to where no other hues and shades are allowed to exist.

My reality was, while we looked up to the high jutting rocks where dreams are rested upon and ended from, we toiled in the valleys in between beside the waters that run to divide our villages and unite our lands, the waters that course through bodies without care for lions nor birds. It was, and it is, but these lenses tell me otherwise. The cliffs magnified ‘til there is nothing standing between: right and left, only an abyss of nonentity and mutual enemies.

My teachers told me if I run and swim straight west one day I shall return from the east, and there isn’t a place to return to because we are always a bit closer to the sun. That there are numbers in wavelengths, and everything I see is but reflections of light and that then I glimpse through my brainfolds to proclaim: salmon!

I am less than a pixel in a point of a moment. I am a fibre that felt the fraying of its tapestry, the mobius that begins to lose sight of its infinity, the speck in the painting that cuts itself apart into single threads and yet again to lose all gradients, all blending, all possibilities but its own destruction. So I raised my hands and whimpered ‘please don’t blind me’.

I saw you standing
across the bridge-less river.
The sun set long before our shirts dried.

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