I sit here. At a desk. Sketches of old memories strewn across it. Half-drawn faces, half-drawn smiles—trying to hide the pain they were trying to hide.
I sit here as the colors of my life dwindle, and my sanity fades along with them. Attempts to stay alive, attempts to not be alive—all fused together like branches in an olive tree. Somehow, sunlight managed to seep through and challenge the fuse I've made.
I wonder if the irises still dance, if they are still blue. God knows I feel so. God knows I tried to seek, and I failed. Days were spent by the bottle and little else.
I remember waiting for him. I remember I made it feel welcome. God knows I did. Maybe God knows why I turned sour, why rage got the best of me. I never could keep it steady. So, Paul, once again, I am sorry.
I sit here, at this desk, watching a beautiful death. A once vibrant yellow sunflower is setting low, below the horizon of time. Its once-vivid yellow is now dry, rigid, and will crumble if I touch it. A subtle breeze would strip it bare. So I breathe carefully. Who would want to rush a beautiful death? This withered flower is all I have left, a reminder of what it means to be alive. I feel yellow inside. I can almost still taste it.
Theo—I wish he could see it the way I see it. Beyond this green-hued window, I saw it. On the first day of spring, a barren, knotted, withered, near-dead almond branch shook off the weight of winter. As if it could feel an invincible summer within it. Within days, it bloomed, and the blossoms stretched their petals and danced in the blue sky. Theo, I hope he can see it the way I see it. I hope he is not like me. I hope he understands
I sense the night is drawing near. I sense it will be starry tonight. The divine light will dance in the air, swirling, uniting with my cosmic energy. But I crave a beautiful death. So I stare at it. It’s on my desk.
I haven’t done much with red. Maybe my last piece should be about red. A beautiful death.














