the forbidden colors: Numbers by Sophia Buddenhagen

the forbidden colors

..warriors of Huaa tribe paint their faces into a rainbow before a battle. The night before shaman reads the sky and forbids them to use certain colours, because it would make them vulnerable to wounds and death. However, if they use the forbidden colours and defeat the enemy, they acquire the highest status in the tribe... ............................................................................ Apothecary jars and heavy mortars protected me since the first day. The world was huge and fit snugly in the palm of my hand. Between the cascade of my grandmother's ivy and the sunny windowsill everything was possible ............................................................................. Snow was coming heavier in winter. I kept breaking the ice only to find more shards. They were deeper every year. I lost few things in a frozen lake never to see them again. Spontaneous summers occurred and snake seasons continued. Tropical thunder came and went with lush abundance. Swampy waters flooded frequently. Steel began to rust and our shoes were moldy but we survived another year ............................................................................. Constant humming of ocean washing the sand away and leaving the debris. Last visions before dawn. Promises made to a wet pillow. Acid clouds burning inside me. I tried to free myself burning candles, capture hope or ask for forgiveness with faded petals or sulphur. Squeaky cogs kept going day and night, sometimes exploding with a broken spring or hissing and melting away quietly. I kept ghosts at bay most of the time .............................................................................. Children were moving through leaving behind their colorful wrappings, words we haven't heard before and an odd teddy bear. Animals were generous with their droppings, shed skins and midnight squeaks. Meteors sent their blessings. Birds hid in the waterfall of fragrant jasmine. We collected their empty nests. Screws and washers in jars. Shoeboxes under beds. We piled up books, tools, paintings, gemstones and driftwood, thinking we will stay another millennium. We wrapped secrets in jeans and hid deceit under a pillow but the cracks got wider. They kept crumbling apart and we had to leave with a suitcase ............................................................................. I summon the spirits now and reluctantly they come. I grow moss in gaps between the walls and often forget my daily prayers. Memory tastes metallic. The forbidden colours I used to paint with, tarnished and oxidized like patina on the pestle that keeps on grinding. But the time is running out we have to find that door ............................................................................................................................................................ so welcome to my blog - these are the windows to be grateful for that I discover every day, there is a passage to the other side somewhere, but I haven't found it yet .............................................................................. ............................................................................... ..............................................................................