Black, Blue, Grey with streaks of holographic white that go away before I can savour them completely, stuck in shades of darkness, yet again. I tried to escape this dystopian havoc, that is messing with my nerves and rationalism but something pulls you into the ground as you try to run in a dream, no matter how hard you try to break free, doesn’t it? Even if it's yourself?

I sit in an airplane, taking off, as a thunderstorm rolls in and its various elements engulf what surrounds. I look at the smudged canvas of blacks, blues, and greys outside the window which perfectly compliments the cabin’s white light in its gloom, bouncing off the silver metal.

I can’t help but think about the painter. Does the painter even exist? What brush does it use to smother such a wide panorama in all tones of sombre and nostalgia for what never even existed before? Do the rumbling clouds imitate the noise of its brush strokes? They seem to scream and shout in an attempt to instill the same the same numb fear this painting invoked in me, trying to capture its essence in their effect. How many times does the painter even change the water it uses? The water that knowingly allows the brushes to dip into it, tainting it black and rendering it incapable of any further use, completely hopeless. I suppose, this is what turns the oceans black during the day even as the Sun is still alive, as God paints his thunderstorm.

Why am I so calm? My heart is beating slower than it usually does. Is this calmness or a sense of impending doom? Have I simply just died? No. I remember laughing hysterically at his jokes, oblivious to all the miseries in life, just because I was with him. Somehow, he always managed to have that effect on me. I couldn’t wait to marry him! Who could’ve guessed that in a blink, shutting my eyes would also shut out that painting in front of me. Now, I just sit in the airplane, with one hand rubbing my left eye, while the right one gawks around in disbelief. Am I losing my mind?

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned”, I find myself saying aloud every Sunday in a cramped wooden box. To whom will God repent this mix up of his? His sin? But God cannot commit sin-I’ve just been abandoned.

1000 feet up in the air, the black on the canvas rises with me, higher and higher with persistent white streaks. Has the frustrated painter hurled his brush into the water after seeing his ruined canvas? The clouds aren’t screaming anymore but the waves wail out of grief for what they are about to do. This is it. When the whites, greens and yellows keep mixing to always give an unwanted red, the painter saves his beloved creation with black. The beloved creation that needs love more than air but decided to butcher it instead. Whose body, that was supposed to carry the precious, divine soul and feed it with love, peace and compassion but decided to feed it poison instead. It now walks around with thirsty steps of overambition, money and fame and eyes all bloody and nefarious, ready to kill. Who will save us from God? The Devil?

One breath… two breaths… slower… three breaths and stop. I need to get out of here. Someone save me! I don’t want to die. I don’t want to be abandoned. You can’t do this to me God! I don’t have the strength. Take me back to him! Don’t do this to me. I beg you, I can’t do it. I can’t bear the pain, please?

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