The pink fog has lifted at last.
This is a statement, or more of a revelation that surprises even me. The kind that springs suddenly, a realisation that materialises and blooms into an awakening by itself. The kind that hits you like a punch to the gut, a slap in the face that makes no sound, just leaves a mark. A quiet "OH". A muffled "I see him in a different light… very different. And I can't unsee it anymore."
This light isn't hidden by a blanket of thick, pink-coloured fog, isn't masked by anything actually. This light is more of a spotlight, 2000 watts glow illuminating him from every angle. Coming from somewhere above, but the where doesn't matter, because the image is clear, not blurry anymore, not hazy, not rose-coloured, and not a mirage. It's filthy clean.
This is not something that occurs from one day to another; long hours must have led me here. Long months, even years. According to my imagination, it happened sometime early on, in the very beginning — this pretty fog descended and settled, somewhere right before my very eyes, and lingered. Lingered and coated him, obscuring him in entirety. Veil on the blueprint. But I know that I could see through the mist from time to time; I saw something with my clouded vision, but the steam congealed it fast enough and I left it. I justified it with constellations, or with fate: this is him, this is me, we are something and so everything is the way that it should be. But time passed, and more often he did something that uncovered the truth of who he actually is. The few times turned to quite a lot over time, and all of a sudden, a lot was way too much.
But this is how it's supposed to be, because no fog lasts forever; the sun always comes out, and all mist or rain evaporates eventually. And yes, this fog was pink, very much so. And it’s one of my favourite colours, so I liked looking at it; I loved seeing him in that shade. How could I have not liked it? Two of my favourite things. And I'm still enamoured with the colour, but with him… not so much anymore. And I guess that was fate, that's what I saw in the constellations; this was the plan all along, for you to ruin things up fatally, for us to make countless mistakes till the whole picture clears and the canvas unveils. Outlines of two mutilated clay figures, spinning in circles, months of shaping coming to life on the treadwheel but the final artefact is grey and crummy. It didn't happen day by day; the process was slow and tedious, and there was no anaesthesia or numbing, so my body and soul were sensing and perceiving every second of it. Unfortunately. But necessarily.
And as the light was getting stronger, the more it illuminated the darkness, and I had to come face-to-face with the shadows. The collision was painful. Injuries, cuts, wounds, damage here and everywhere. I think the result is a tie, at last, and peace. The kind of peace that doesn't settle in the moment something ends — it crawls in slowly, day by day, month by month, and suddenly it's here, gently, benevolently. Serenity and reconciliation. Clarity and bright scenery, even brighter days ahead. And if I ever find myself running headfirst into another patch of fuchsia mist, I know I have to look for the shadow — in there, in me, right then and there — and not fabricate mirages of the past and future.
Until then, I put on my rose-coloured sunglasses, because summer is blasting, and the sunshine is blinding me in the best possible way, and I'm enjoying every second of it. The warmth of it — it's scorching this year, but it ignites my greyed-out wounds and colours in my outlines just the right way. I love to see the world in blush. This is my choice now. I put down my sword and I grabbed the pen: blue, black, and pink. Hearts engraved in the margins in all shades, on pages in my old and new journals. And here and now, pink and coral and red hearts glow in my vision, bright, as my reflection smiles back at me in the mirror. Afterglow. 20000 watts bright.
