“But it’s not just blue,” I said. “It’s a lot of other colors too, if you look long enough.
It spends just as much time in black,
Sometimes with silver freckles sprinkled in.
And in the in-betweens, it phases through strips of yellow/orange/red/pink;
Phases as fleeting as they are eternal.
I’ve heard in some places, it waves electric ribbons of green and purple,
But right now and here, its rather gray with the overcast.
And I’m sure you’ve seen it too,
But you already made up your mind that the blue sky is truer than the rest.”
“You’re not answering the question,” he said.
So I talked about scattering frequencies and passed the test.
You know that feeling when the season changes? When you’re exhausted and unhappy about being awake at 8 AM until you step outside and taste the bright, breezy, and thoroughly not freezing air. And you just start feeling things. Like hope and relief and excitement bubbling under your skin cells. You also feel your fingers, because they’re not frozen numb. So with your circulation unimpeded, you stop walking so fast and just stand there to think. And you think it’s funny how you feel so different now, even though nothing is really different. Except the weather.
And then the memories come. Every spring in your lifetime comes flooding back. Well some of them flood–the rest drip, or trickle or ooze–but it’s hard to make the distinction when you’re trying to stay afloat in the cumulative puddle. There’s some scattered images and sound bites, but mostly sensations tickling your body and head. The close touch of people you may never see again (and those you no longer want to). The warmth of places that used to be home. The pulse of old dreams. And you start to smile and cry and laugh all at the same time so that your face looks really weird and people around you wonder what’s wrong with you (and you think that’s actually a really good question). And you think it’s funny how you feel all the same things now, even though nothing is the same. Except the weather.