purple woman

A woman leaves. She isn't going back. She's had enough. It's what I see, in the image. And it's what I know. Wearing purple because the green doesn't matter and if she's wearing purple she can pretend she's the old woman who wears purple and spits in front gardens. She's had enough. Hasn't every? There is snow. And it makes you forget that there might be a word missing. Because snow is a white page. And the place where she's going hasn't been tainted by language, yet. She has no feet. No body parts but a nose, an ear and bright red lips. Desire is hoped for. Seen, also, in the pink yellow sky. Watercolour white words sail in her mind as she decides where to go. If she. One foot over the other. This moment, the moment the painter caught her, is only a part of it. There are mountains to come. And my sitting behind the canvas has told me nothing about her but a thousand things about me. Questions fall from the 2D painting on the laptop screen, down the keypad and into the white room. My dressing gown is purple. Red lipstick stains on light grey bedsheets. Because the world is only ever how you see it. I don't know whether this is supposed to be an exercise to write until you know yourself. No pausing. No editing. But it's how it's become. Two hundred and thirty-two words. One more. Three. A woman is leaving. Could it be me? Could I. If she. But. Why is her hat so large? Is it to say that the place she is going will need shade? Is she leaving to disappear? Can you/ we? What if the subject of this piece was the mountain? And then I scroll down. Review the text. Find the woman's feet. Find that she's been painted by a man. And the positioning of her feet somehow seems to make her look as if she's going slower. Her purple cloak flows in the wind but her feet are so still she could be standing. Is she only looking at the mountains?