With the green of every plant
the glow of every low-hanging lamp
the fervor of every conversation from one table to another and another
I am reminded of how pale my being-ness is. And for the first time in a long time, I am okay with it. Perhaps, this is how sad stories tend to rub on me, such that I walked every step with so much weight and melancholy. This is how the colors, both bright and dull, fill my seemingly empty pages, my plain existence.
And sometimes, I dream, too. To talk with fervor, as if every word and syllable matter. I dream to glow and be a light to someone who’s been in the dark just because I know and feel what it’s like. To be green and earthy to pay my homage to our humanity which I think I may belong. Such are the dreams of a pale being. Mundane. Ordinary.