The cherry blossoms are a thing to be celebrated with family and friends and food and laughter, and yet, I think I want to be alone this year. I want to sit and sip beneath the trees in reverent silence and let myself see only what She wants me to see.
The doctor scribbled away on his clipboard: anxiety, mental health unstable, irritable, illogical, blah blah blah... Prescription: placebo.
I have been lost for so long in the haze of teenage angst that one might think that I don't even know how to function in society anymore. Surprise; I am still a functional human being with my petty human desires and minuscule human values and tedious human dreams of grandeur.
Sensory overload, but it feels incredible. I can see everything and I can hear all. Colours bloom intermittently and unceasingly and instantly. Music sounds and resounds at a speed with which no sound and all sound can be heard.
The painting is splattered in deep colours—black, red, grey—that appear to struggle fruitlessly against the stark white canvas.
The wind whistles past the deep purple flowers, complimenting their silent visual music.
Not all memories are of monumental moments; so many of mine are mere snippets of my life, irrelevant to all but myself.