Gray, better say black. I believe everyone knows what these colours represent. Decay, lets say death. Sure, black can be beautiful put into a different context, and in a different life. But as the world is shaping, turning, it seems like it isn’t just a ball that is rotating in an inkless space, but it seems like there is an invisible opening that gradually pours darkness on the “innocent” ball.
Worse news is that, it isn’t just colouring the skin of the ball, but ‘ that the ink is being split inside of it. Worse news is that it isn’t just spilling inside of it, but colouring the sources of life, sources that run day and night just so that this ball keeps rotating.
On top of that, we look like we enjoy the taste of black oil. We suck it in, we feel it, we live it. But we don’t realize, that sooner or later, it starts to live as us, like a new beginning, where the beginning isn’t pure red anymore, where it isn’t warm anymore.
Instead of expressing warmness, we pollute the air, we pollute unfortunately not only with fume. We pour blackness on top of already weak colours.
Every moment seems like eternity, and every breath feels like waste. The window seems barely open, the wall seems too high for the light.
Even if we know the way out, it seems like the fog is too thick. We are looking for hundred hands to help us up, while a hundred hands are keeping us down.