Bleeding Purple

Ink bleeds outward and through,

And we find, like children upon discovering snow, that

A single drop of water had been enough

To expose all those ingredients that had come together

To make this purple: a pink-like quality to it, amid all these shades of blue.

We stand on the other side of

Blood-stained tissue. Of burgeoning promise, ruptured cocoons,

Think, somehow, that harmony ought to be found upon conveyor belt rat race

Production-line-like clarity, shiny plastic.

But oh dear, living, breathing, human being:

How is your heart today?

Do you perceive it heavy —

Caught up beneath world’s many images; between life’s many twists and turns?

“Busy,” we say. Drenched in things

‘To do’. There is oh, so much. We forget about purpose; focus on those craggy convolutions, and on

All these bleeding streams of blue. The work made us tired, though the hurt, from our veins, gave us poetry.

Information and tasks. Tech, and a thousand and one things

To think about, to

perform. We sit on the train; try to inhale it all like we are hungry for it,

Worry ourselves to near spiritual death about

what others may be thinking.

Close our eyes, once or twice, at least for a night-

time of contented re-centring. This is hard, my friend, but it is real. And here you stand,

Alive, alive, alive, and

Mind, heart, and soul:

All caught up, on the right side of it all,

I promise you. You are you; they are they, and

Bi’ithnillah, my friend, you will be okay. Things are not simple, but I hope that soon you will find:

That this life is yours and it is happening right now;

that you are in exactly the right place, at precisely the right time.


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