I wear a cloak.
The outside is purple and pink and green and yellow; it is happy, smiling, laughing, full of joy.
The inside is black and without end.
I hold the cloak to me tightly so that sometimes even I can see bits of the outside; the colors.
But, the blackness is always there, underneath, closest to me no matter what I do. Life happens and blows the cloak: colors blackness colors blackness….
I’m so tired of the blackness.
Tired from holding the cloak so tight. Tired of fighting the blackness.
The cloak is thin enough to let hurt in but too thick to let hurt out, so the hurt hardly ever shows. Everyone sees the colors, but never looks in my eyes, listens to my words. So the cloak holds these in as well and the hurt feeds on the words held.
And the blackness swirls. It is dramatic and everyone is afraid of it. Not wanting to see it or even hear about it.
So it must be tucked in close, folded over and under and held tight so all that shows is the outside….those colors.
The colors seem to be loved.
I feel crazy, but think if I truly were the cloak would be reversed. I would hold the colors tightly to me and be oblivious to the world and the world would only see the void where the blackness is.
So if that is the case, why do I also feel invisible now? When the colors are on the outside? Because the colors hide the black and the cloak only lets hurt in and not out and life goes on around me and no one knows or wants to know the blackness that is surrounding me!
Am I wearing the cloak or is it wearing me, holding me down, smothering me, hurting me a little more each time I fail to keep it tight enough so even I can see the colors?
And I’m tired.