On Red and Stagnant Waters

In lakes and glistening lights, I found myself floating. It was not the happy elevation of spirits but more of a light headedness that lead me to rise above the crowd, leaving behind crumbs of smiles and dreaded times. His hand touched hers, surrounding palms with palms and leaving touches of red roses on her cheeks. I smiled, knowing that his palms promised her eternal flowers, a rose for every day, palms on palms forever.

As I rose, over lakes and glistening surfaces, the crowd of happiness rose with me, touching only my elbow, my knee, the back of my neck. Too fast was it for me to catch but lingered too long for it to leave lasting burns on places I can’t reach.

The water seemed stagnant, having stayed still since the beginning of time and a time before that, it knew every molecule of air that touched its surface ; knew every piece of grass and all its ancestors, all the trees that bloomed and the ones that refused to abide by the rules of mother nature who kept the water prisoner all those years. And because it knew everything around it, it knew when someone sat at its bank to enjoy a quiet moment, when two lovers made the side of it their own, when a father took his girl to show her beauty and when someone like me sat near it.

I came back down, rejoined the cling and clatter of humans, for I wasn’t one anymore. You see, when you rise and fall, the space between you and your body morphs into shapes unseen before by the eyes of humanity, and when you return you can only see them.

Red seemed to be the order of the day, for after her flowery cheeks shined scarlet, the red in another’s eyes took place. Strength is a great burden to bear, and he knew not how to put the weight down. His eyes started glowing red at the corners and metastasized to the middle. Tears were insufferable, tears were never an option. His eyes grew red, his fist clenched, not a tear slipped by the gates.

Another’s crimson dress flew with the breeze that visited every few moments to greet those who visited the lake. Short at a side, long at another, the beauty of her body was only highlighted by the crimson fabric that encircled her. Her face was pale, though; no flowers touched it, not a rose in sight, not in a million years.

I watched, different forms of red, different shades, different reasons. Ah how the beauty of one color can make itself out to be so damn versatile. I didn’t want red, I tried to float again, but red was the only way to float.

They were a nice collection of people, beautiful, in fact. If I had been a painter, I would have spent the rest of my hours perfecting strokes of their faces, shades of the reds; They would have been…beautiful.

Red was the only way to float again, and in the midst of their happiness, their sadness, their occupation with each other, they missed me showing my red. My version of scarlet, that trickled slower that I thought down a white blouse’s sleeve. I regretted ruining it, but the white on crimson made it much more dramatic, prominent, but they still couldn’t see.

I regretted not saying goodbye to the circle of painted souls. They were, as a said, beautiful and they could not see their beauty amidst the waves of red. I regretted his eyes, their palms and her dress, how magnificent they were. How beautiful would they have been, had I stayed.

Instead of painting them, I decided to leave them this note. Beauty was tainted too much by strokes of paint, but writing them down can reserve their youth forever. Some would call this a “Suicide Letter” but I think of it as the only way to float.