Blanc

Cumulonimbus tidal waves blanket the sky like an overcast of clean bed sheets calming you into a dream. It’s a lot like having your head in the clouds, but you’re still grounded, rooted like a white orchid – a delicate luxury.

And it’s an astonishing thing: the feeling of snow on phantom limbs. It makes you wonder if the Eskimos had a word for the sensation – somewhere in between shock and silk, faux fur and ice. It must feel nice – like fingering pages of a notebook.

At times, it tastes like Marlboro lights being smoked under moonlight – the fumes dance in the wind like feathers until they’re wisped away into the atmosphere. Far away from the words never said on blank postcards that were never sent. Those unexplored places live like skeletons, groping onto hope.

Some people find life in surviving blanched sand deserts or skiing Mount Everest, but you’ll notice those of us who hide and seek behind pearly teeth and a counterfeit smile. At our very best, accepting death can feel like telling time with a broken wrist watch. Will you use your seconds wisely?

We paint our lies white as if the absence of truth is the absence of color, and we begin to forget that honesty reads like love letters on paper napkins and sounds like Comptine D’un Autre Temps on the piano. It tastes like a glass of water in the summer and smells like the soul of an old book. It looks like a holy forest of birch bark trees bathing in ivory light.

And you are light, like an egg shell encasing a soulful ghost that has built a bungalow out of your bones. Your hourglass must be handled with care because your light is not an absence, it is an affirmation – even in blank space, when there is seemingly nothing, you are a reflection of everything.