The black that just added more color to our lives. Or not.

The black that just added more color to our lives. Or not.

And, it is over. Like everything else. Music fading away in the background, lights dimming out. People cheering, applauding, telling us how good we were. Smiles everywhere. Appreciating smiles, patronizing smiles, you-could-have-done-better smiles. Pleasantly surprising hugs spreading warmth like a cup of strong black coffee. A feeling of belonging, of having done something big together. Not wanting to move out of that cozy niche. Cuddling up, staying there.

Then, snap! The last bench of the French class. Despair floating around like a forlorn forgotten bubble. And I, a romantic fool, trying to pierce it, burst it into nothingness with a prick of yesterday’s magic. Trying to conjure what is to be, with a pale shadow of what had been. Priceless.

The thorns seem sharper than before. And there are a whole lot more of them. Perhaps it is just the heat, or did the road just get longer? It all seems so meaningless. So completely unworthy. I look beside me. Yawn. He looks back, tells me that this is one hour of my life that I will never get back. A smile. A feigned tribute to every minute that ticked, is ticking.

I tell myself that I am hung over. Post “big thing” blues. But hope is a fragile thing. It does not take much to break it. All we need is a reason. All I have is a pernicious lie.

The black did paint a lot of hues on my canvas. Strong, bold swish-swashes. But I guess the brightness blinded me. Perhaps I need the old monochrome. If only life could be edited in picasa..