Clean-up

Today has been a busy day indeed. I was reaching at the back of the darkest closets because the doors wouldn’t close anymore, and things I didn’t mean to show kept spilling out.
So much has collected in there… Webs of hope and despair so intricately settled upon both old and new, I couldn’t distinguish a souvenir from a dream.

So I had to take it all out.
It is the only way to decide what must stay and what must go.
To put each thing back where it belongs, understanding its place anew, or else to say enough, you’re just taking room, and I need some space outside of you.

But it isn’t just closets that get too full; sometimes I do too.
Old thoughts linger and cloud the new, and my mind sees a picture that’s far from true.
I think. I can never know.
That is the price of identity, memory—which by its very definition is the past acting as a reference point for every present experience.

All I can do is try to stay young in a body that withers and wrinkles like discoloured scars refusing to heal. To stay believing. To stay sweeter than the bitter in my mouth I can still taste from the last bout of living. Or trying to…

But someone told me I must break. That life was the thing we’re not meant to survive.
“Give it another year or two.”
As though blue would finally paint me too.

Well, I am blue—forever reaching for yellow, then merging into a forest of green thoughts, dotted in red from where the growth keeps pricking… I guess I never liked painting with just one colour.

But mixed all together, they too would turn black.
Like a shadow. Like a dark closet. Like a mind too full.
You see how necessary it is to clean up?