Colouring in

Life is becoming hazy; a whirlwind through which I can barely catch my breath,  let alone pass exams and maintain a semi-acceptable social life. Swirls of to dos list and social expectations are suffocating, twisting me into a hurricane of so many colours I am blinded and cannot keep tabs of even one.

And so I retreat to a safer comfort zone of grey and white, an area I have sketched out and imprisoned myself within. My friends seem to have risen beyond this chaos of colour; the different aspects of their lives have been arranged neatly into boxes so that the neon green doesn’t mix disastrously with the pastel pink, or the psychedelic yellow with the festive red.

I call my mother when things get too much. I call her only to cry and wonder why I feel so dimmed against the dazzling lights of my friends and their rainbow array of accomplishments.

“You’re only 20, love.” Comes her reassurance. “You’ve only just started colouring yourself in.”

My mother; the most multicoloured of anyone. She’s pressed the pencil so hard against her skin that each tone stands out intense and shimmering. A blend of every shade, all disobediently treading outside the lines of conformity and refusing to be shaped by a terrible world.

I examine my half-hearted sprinkle of violet, and bold orange. The pink and maroon sketched along the borders. The green which crawls across my canvas in a vain attempt to be the primary tone. My colours emerge slowly, seeking reassurance before they do so, terribly afraid of clashing against those of others.

Let them clash.

 

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