They roll in like dark marbles, black and grey and deep purple. A green, for envy, every once in a while. If she could feel anything when she looked at them, it would be fear. She knows this because she’s tried fear (yellow) before and now she can put a name to it. The black should be the worst, an all-consuming sadness, but it’s the greys she really tries to avoid. They’re nothing, they’re empty, they’re the absence of anything at all. And she already knows what that feels like.
Scrolling through some older posts and I found this one! It’s a nice little reminder of when I was less afraid to experiment with my writing – and less afraid to post it!
We sit on cold steps outside venues, the icy stone making itself known through cut off shorts and brightly coloured tights. We wear t-shirts that proclaim the name of the band we saw the night before, bowing to the unspoken rule that you never dress for the show you’re at, only the shows you’ve seen. Our shoes are named, Patrick and Pete, Griffiths and Day. Our phones, our cameras christened too. Our bags are signed, waiting by day in lines at festivals, by night beside the tour bus or, as we get older and the bands get less famous, by the bar. A few drinks, a quick chat, and out comes the Sharpie. That’s not a euphemism.