Brisk-- a slight whisp of northern wind rustles rainbow dewdrop grass, around me, blooming trees breathing deeply inward, their fresh foliage is an assortment of all green hues, a relief from the freezing, chill drab grays of winter...
Dandelions splotch [arts of the grass-- nature's lazy Jackson Pollack homage.
The sun seems brighter, the lighting a stereotypical 1950's Leave It to ******-esq TV show.
Here I sit, wearing all black under a tree; the only thing colorful about me is the gold writing on this Pilot jet black pen dribbling these words in gooey black ink.
I woke feeling uneasy & forlorn, like rising from a haunted bed. Not sure why...
Even the dogs in this park trot with brighter velocity. A small grey/brown Scottie yipps at me, as if letting everyone know I'm an anomaly on this otherwise perfect day.
Part of me wants to scream at all the people in their colorful neon running garb or shimmering salvation Sunday cloth, but another part just wants to jam this pen through my ******, straight into my heart & let the ink & my crimson, iron-rich blood seep into the ground, because those are the closest feelings I've found to express something there are no words for.
Sounds like it might be one of those angsty cloudy type days.