Somewhere between spring blossoms and diabolical sentiments, my favourite month of the year was too overwhelming to hold its spot this year.
My month began with an anxiety attack at 5 in the morning when sunrise was still at bay and the highlighted date titled “Birth month” on my calendar was blurred by overflowing tears.
Three days later came a soul crushing rejection from a university that I had put a lot of effort applying to, and even more morbid was the fact that I would not be having a “happy” birthday because all I could feel was pity for the person in the mirror. She was begging me for a way out but I could offer her no comfort.
What good would a few colourfully wrapped gifts and glossy candles do to a person whose mind had thrown itself into a dark abyss? There were no openings whatsoever, I felt claustrophobic in my own body, felt trapped in my own thoughts.
I remained subdued to the point where nothing excited me, I was engrossed in depressing poetry and morbid music numbers that pushed me further down the burrow.
I had read somewhere, focusing on the colour “red” helps regain concentration; ironically, it came in the form of bloodstains, that the world had bred and bled out of hatred on a Friday noon in Christchurch, New Zealand.
I was starting to notice how much negativity there was to go around, how easy it was to feel hopeless. From a terrorist attack to a zebra crossing stained red with an innocent’s blood and multicoloured placards seeking justice, I realised the month was colourful as ever, just not in the essence one would expect.
When the grand moon brought festive cheers of Holi, I was trying to put those colours into words, in an attempt to capture some of it into my life. But just as they are, dusts of colours, they slipped from me as fast as the friend I held dearest to me. The colour of separation left me barren, much like my all-white holi outfit.
From there, I only had two paths staring ahead of me: embracing the emptiness as a fresh slate to rewrite my story, or let it get infested with monochrome, displeasure and remorse.
Hiding behind my black and white textbooks had never been more liberating; a cup of mocha bought solely for myself hadn’t ever tasted sweeter, letting go of faded colours to make space for new ones had never seemed more logical.
Fragility was at its peak, so was my power to burst through; if I were to choose between a black chalkboard or a glossy white slate right now, I would choose the former. If I had to choose between a bright red and a dull grey, I’d choose the latter.
We can polish faded colours back to brightness, but the more we polish the brightness, it’s bound to get stained. So between clinging to hope and starting from point zero, I’d rather focus on my sandy lane than the red ribbon at the finishing line.