english,
Fingers of my right hand trace my left palm. The feeling that welcomed me sent shivers down my spine.
The tip of my index finger glided across a cold and heavy surface, almost as if a hunk of metal were in place where my hand should have been. A stinging sensation seeped through my eyes as tears started to cascade down the curves of my cheeks.
I wouldn't deny how much I had once wished to be loved. The reason as to why, shouldn't concern anyone else but myself.
Because to remember exactly why would be akin to watching a monotonous reel in sepia tones. These memories appear as dull and weightless to those who have plunged into the deepest of colors.
All that remains of me now is a hollow husk. A void that echoed the slamming of doors. A repeated sense of rejection.
A seed of blame, that branched out and lashed at others that was still deeply rooted in myself.
Yet, they arrived.
And the thought of them sent warmth rushing back to my hands. A warm rose washes the pale ivory away. Blood buzzes to my palm all the way down to the tips of my fingertips.
I will always be grateful for how each and every one of them made it a point to let me know that I was worthwhile. They would tirelessly teach me how to shrug my doubts off while facing my fears. And eventually, it became easier for me to laugh, to apologize, and to learn.
With them along, somehow life started to bleed color. The tedious routine I once had now radiated vivid hues. A great splendor flashed before my eyes each day.
I'd think to myself just how much I would love to listen to stories about their dreams, as a tiny voice in the back of my head hopes for the best and cheers them on. How I hope to guard them from anything that dims their world.
I'd smile and appreciate everyone's tiny differences. Because these memories of them will be treasured in my heart, always.
They taught an artist how to view life in full color. And with every stroke of my brush, I shall paint beauty to celebrate their legacies.
Together, we shall leave stories with an impact that will linger, even with the passing of time.
Literary: Technicolor
Fingers of my right hand trace my left palm. The feeling that welcomed me sent shivers down my spine.
The tip of my index finger glided across a cold and heavy surface, almost as if a hunk of metal were in place where my hand should have been. A stinging sensation seeped through my eyes as tears started to cascade down the curves of my cheeks.
I wouldn't deny how much I had once wished to be loved. The reason as to why, shouldn't concern anyone else but myself.
Because to remember exactly why would be akin to watching a monotonous reel in sepia tones. These memories appear as dull and weightless to those who have plunged into the deepest of colors.
All that remains of me now is a hollow husk. A void that echoed the slamming of doors. A repeated sense of rejection.
A seed of blame, that branched out and lashed at others that was still deeply rooted in myself.
Yet, they arrived.
And the thought of them sent warmth rushing back to my hands. A warm rose washes the pale ivory away. Blood buzzes to my palm all the way down to the tips of my fingertips.
I will always be grateful for how each and every one of them made it a point to let me know that I was worthwhile. They would tirelessly teach me how to shrug my doubts off while facing my fears. And eventually, it became easier for me to laugh, to apologize, and to learn.
With them along, somehow life started to bleed color. The tedious routine I once had now radiated vivid hues. A great splendor flashed before my eyes each day.
I'd think to myself just how much I would love to listen to stories about their dreams, as a tiny voice in the back of my head hopes for the best and cheers them on. How I hope to guard them from anything that dims their world.
I'd smile and appreciate everyone's tiny differences. Because these memories of them will be treasured in my heart, always.
They taught an artist how to view life in full color. And with every stroke of my brush, I shall paint beauty to celebrate their legacies.
Together, we shall leave stories with an impact that will linger, even with the passing of time.
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