Warning: Unconventional Imagery
This prose is an author’s monologue. Enjoy the meaningless tangent.
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Pneuma: the vital spirit, soul, or creative force of a person.
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‘True Colors’ are described differently depending on who you ask. Some believe that they’re brought to light once a person has become the best version of themselves; others say it’s when one is put under pressure: stress. In reality, it’s a spectrum of both. The good and the bad; pretty and ugly. Some shades shine brighter than others, or fade into each other like RGB.
I ooze like a puddle of gray, shifting from warm and light to dark and cool. Maybe I’ll sink into a melancholy blue out of spite— gray is his favorite color, and I no longer feel like his favorite.
A flustered fling flourished under the influence of my peers, only to dwindle into uncertainty. Another would follow. All I’ve gathered in these attempts to sate my desire are simpler standards, trust issues, and fear. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, maybe my abstinence will be rewarded with the soul mate of my dreams. Knowing what’s best for me, and doing it for myself, are two very different things.
I don’t believe I’ve ever given my heart to anyone; rather, I’ve offered a sewing needle to either stitch something new onto it, curiously prick and prod, or stab my developing love like acupuncture. The result thereof is my mess to clean as they return the needle, regretting the mark they’ve made on me. I’m no seamstress, myself, so I never blame them.
Over time, my puddle of gray either freezes into a murky patch of ice or evaporates into the air— leading to dormancy or leaps of faith. I’ve gone from having the heart to try again to repressing my emotions until I’m a complacent recluse; content with keeping to myself until I'm plagued with cabin fever.
But once I step out, what do I do? Where do I start? Should I take on more responsibilities, or neglect the ones I’ve managed to keep by trying something new? I can’t do both- I don’t have the stamina for that. I feel like I either rely on others too much or push people away to a fault… without meaning to.
I’ve changed.
And yet, I still haven’t figured out what my change has lead to. All I know is that I’m different. I’m different from who I was three, four years ago. Once I was so sure in my identity and what I wanted in life. Now, I have to go through that process again.
This time, however, I know more; have felt and understand more, while understanding nothing at all. The only person I can’t seem to be patient with is myself. It’s interesting how my experiences with romance have influenced my outlook on friendships, and vice versa. I’ve always loved connecting with people: learning how they act, think, feel, and why they do so. But now, I’m not so sure. I’m not as easy to get along with.
I’m great at getting to know people— but terrible at keeping their attention. It’s not that I don’t care… I guess I don’t have the skills I once had to maintain a long-term companionship.
Even if the sun were to shine on me, I don’t think I could tell you my true colors. Never mind the person in the mirror.
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