Sometimes I wish I could light my thoughts on fire and watch them burn to black ash so I could sweep them away with my bare hand and wipe the residue on my jeans and wash the last of it away with bleach in my too small washer, but that’s impossible.
In my dreams I see reds and purples and blues as vividly as blacks and greys and whites. Sometimes yellows and greens stand out over the rest. When I was a young girl, someone told me that this was impossible, that our dreams were all in black and white. I decided I must have a Technicolor painter editing my dreams because the colors were what I remembered most when I awoke.
The sun is missing today. This bear can attest to that. His shades are useless, farcical, with their oversize hearts. London skies are a sun vacuum, replacing the brilliant golds with bitter grey. I feel it today, a particular type of unkindness settling beneath my tepid skin. In Texas I would be burning with joy, instead of drowning in apathy. Come back oh yellow beam of light, return and warm my muted heart. Remind me why I love London summertime, or why I think I do.