The outline of my soul

splashed on a canvas

exists only in my imagination

wavelengths of light

in disappearing edges

perceptions of my intensity

undertone and luminosity

extracting meaning

from my world

heat of my body

color of daylight

iridescence of energy.

When asked what is my favorite color- I will have to say: "Nerphth."

To which the person who asked me the question might think I mentioned some type of drug or just trying to pull their leg. Then to make things more peculiar after I give a response to the question, I will gaze into their eyes and begin to explain what this color is.

I ask if I can hold their hand and at the moment that our hands meet, their eyes begin to see the color of a shinin' almost blindin' color from the sun right at the break of dawn.

"Do you see what I see?"

I ask with a sparkle in my eye- my eyes are the same color, too. If you stare too long at them- you will go blind.

#NERPHTH. (c)

07/08/2021 Sat'rday.

When I think, my thoughts are a certain color.

Do you know what color they are?

They aren't a color you can behold with your human eyes.

They are a color you can only feel with your soul.

Everyone knows that color.

Even you.

It's that color you see when you feel conflicted.

When you feel love and confusion and joy and sadness all at once.

When you are happy and excited with so much to say but no words come out.

It's the color of those words that don't come out; the words that swirl around in your head behind that smile on your face.

That color you sink into, curling up into a fetal position when no one is looking.

That color of your favorite song on repeat flooding your ears and brain, drowning out everything.

It's that same color that bathes you as you dance with ribbons and butterflies swirling all around you.

That color of the truth deep in your heart.

That color beckoning you to look up and keep going.

That color telling you to let all of your feelings burst out instead of hiding them.

That color of the emotional explosion of happiness, pain, anger, joy, sadness, love, thankfulness, forgiveness, salvation, and acceptance spilling out in a long, loud yell mixed with laughter and tears.

That color of freedom.

That color.

Freshwater streams flowing,

seen as stagnant

Breeze bending blossoms,

winds wafting unfragrant

Sunrise stippling,

yet, monochromatic

The shading of Hopeless,

both silent and static

I see a tiny boy digging into his tiny pocket. He pulls out a coin which he places in the paper cup of a homeless man. This same tiny boy marches on down the street where he hears a steel drum, made out of tin cans, sending beautiful music to his tiny ears. Once again, he reaches into his tiny pocket and drops a shiny nickel on the ground next to the street musician.

The tiny boy knows he has only one copper penny left in his pocket. He saves it for tomorrow. His compassion is not tiny.

the color

of the window,

not the scenery behind it.

does anyone contemplate

what a window would look like

with nothing behind it?

the color

of the window,

not the house inside it.

does anyone contemplate

what a window would look like

if there was nothing inside it?

nothing outside or inside

no sides at all

just a glass wall

between nothing and nowhere.

what would you see?

the color

of the window.

all color is, is a certain wavelength,

that gets absorbed,

and not reflected,

like all the others.

While my retina only notices colors ,

of three color groups,

my skin absorbes more.

in the blistering sun, it absorbs,

burns slowly, as the light interrupts and cooks.

deeper still,

chromasomes absorb ,

more malicious colors still.

this color,

called Radion,

has such a fantastic,

life-changing experience,

to those strands,

of memorial carbons,

that the cells just say "screw it",

to other tissues.

why keep replicating endlessly,

serve some function,

but not their benefit.

why bear streatxhing and pulling,

attacked here, healed there?

why not do things different.

the radion, shines on them.

gives them passion and hope,

that only chemo can break.

They say fireweed is Alaska’s clock and summer is almost over when its magenta blooms reach the top, winter sixty days away, a bittersweet thought. The sweet side of this is that it means we are in the best part of summer, the heart of it, long days that seem endless, days that embolden us to take an afternoon off, climb higher up the mountain, fish a little longer in the creek, or wander deeper into the forest. The sun lingers and alpine ponds become swimming pools, ridges familiar paths, and boulders transform into picnic benches. Remnants of early flowers indicate the season’s progression, while later blooms promise there’s still a little bit of fun left to be had.

Spartens is the color of ancient ruins

And riverbank civilizations

It is the color of oligarchic kings

And philosopher poets

It is the color of warfare

Its successes and defeats

It is the color of humanity

At least to ancient Greeks

My wrists gushed with red and the window was painted gray as it entered the night. In college, I discovered a new color. A color that changes every so slightly within me as I change. A doctor in a white coat approached me, to layout my devastating future ahead of me. My days seemed dark for a long time. Nothing specific, but definitely unwelcomed colors that never seemed to shed any light on paths I spent months looking for. Time seemed to drag on and the only comfort I find is in the colors of love. Reds and pinks seem to distract me like the fuzzy feelings of Valentine's day in elementary school when the love of your life gives you one extra piece of candy. These reds and pinks lasted like a shitty coating of deck paint that never lasted even one winter.

Clean air felt bleak, with no scent to hold my capture. The sun felt venomous, too much brightness, showing feelings I'm envious towards. I felt no comfort in the outdoors although I hear that's the best for you. My curtains stay drawn, two-layered for ultimate sun-soaking.

My bed is warm. A new quilt covers me, hand-stitched by a woman in New England, in my mom's attempt to make me feel just a little bit better. I reflect back on college, past relationships, and old friends. Happiness that seemed so far from my light, undernourished, anxious grasp. Unworthy and exhausting, the color of dread. Unhappy and time-consuming, the color of tragedy. A walking statistic forgetting the world of color that used to surround me.

Tough love advances me above unimaginable heights. "There's only so much I

can do. You need to start putting in an effort." Harsh to many, I can imagine. But that's how I was brought up. A new series arises before me of effort and fail trial and error, and insatiable hunger for growth and success.

The roads have cleared no paths and the exhausting haul up the same mountain remains tedious. But my strengths glisten throughout blue lakes, and time seems more manageable hidden in a coat of green forests and golden sunlight. Healing is a color of unimaginable concoctions, none at which the mind can comprehend. The color of healing, like a pheromone, is seemingly different from every story. A color that starts faint and grows brighter and more intriguing as time moves on. A color that creates a perception of the possibility of power and strength.