I’m thinking of black. Maybe not quite black, but a very dark blue. And there’s white, too; specks of white swirling across it like snow. Or maybe it’s like flower petals. Or stars.
Well, petals or stars or snow, down they fall into a pool of rippling black, a truer black than the blue. It’s not really a cold black or an angry one. It’s calm, and warm, but not warm like sunshine, warm like a temperate summer night.
Why am I thinking of this? I couldn’t say. Not couldn’t like I’m incapable, but couldn’t like I’d say it all wrong. I’m frightened of what I might learn about myself, of what I might choose to ignore. I’m frightened that if I tell you, you’ll think worse of me.
Maybe if I told you that it sounds like a quiet, the kind where you can almost hear something; or how it feels tired, but full of determined awe and wonder. Maybe you’d understand.
But what is there to understand? A few bits of imagery, the faintest hint at there being more? Maybe one day, I’ll just tell you. Maybe one day, I’ll speak, and the words I would say would have meaning. Not meaning the way that each word has a definition, but meaning the way that a song sounds to your soul.
Author Notes: I'm... not entirely sure what to say about this. It came from my brain, and then you read it. Thanks!