Boxes

I once dreamed my life in bubble-gum colours. While waiting for the train, while doing laundry, while plunging into short texts during lunch break, while staring into an indigo sky, moon kissed. Now I roam tight rooms without windows and walls painted in pastel colours. I walk through boxes, collecting dirt from too many shoes and lives in transit, where memories mix and match. These already forgotten dreams, these shattered hopes and shy longings embrace each other more merrily, lovingly than their creators ever did, before they are too dissipating in smoky clouds out of exhaust vents, sky walking. Up and ever upwards where, in clouds and storms, some of them unravel from tight embraces to rain down on grey, on grey. They are met with no sigh of relief, only by busy hands briskly brushing away any sign of rainbows forming on their sleeves.

I started chewing gum again. I go into stores to buy the brightest brands in bulk with promises of big bubbles and loud pops. My jaw muscles have become sore. I chew them zealously, trying to squeeze and pull out any trace of colour but their bubbles die before passing my lips, their colours never show for me. I spit them out, grey on grey.