Red, white, blue, Mraz....

It is slightly grey outside but the colours that fill spaces within were far from grey. He pulled on his white shirt and she, she was red and blue as she sipped coffee and watched the rain. He sprung down the stairs and made himself a cup of coffee using that brand new nespresso machine, his new toy. He was definitely not grey.

The mood was, Mraz, and she turned the music. Weather like this filled her head with beautifully formed words and she must write. Often they just filled her head and stopped at being ideas, today she wanted those words to flow and unfold to build a story, and flow they did. She smiled. Something that definitely brightened his day. She felt slightly proud, as he sipped the coffee sweetened with honey, and took at bite of the brown bread. His tongue tingled with excitement at those tastes for liking for natural foods was something he had to acquire, he said, for the chinaman he was. In time, acquired them he did, and to her, being the yellow chinaman had nothing to do whatsoever with the appreciation of things, just as they are.

She held the opinion that people never left things as they are as much anymore, neither do they like things just the way they are anymore. Simplicity is a waning trend, and deemed old school, old fashioned. As her yellow chinaman preferred elaborate foods, over processed with too much sugar, refined of course and she must admit taste pretty good, her home never contained much of such. She just wanted to come home to simplicity, and seeing how he came home to her every night now, he seems to have found the same pleasure in simplicity. She was not much of the over processed, refined kind of lady. Guarded she was, because, when people saw her, and not like what they saw, it was her whole being they did not like, and that filled her with much stress, not being liked.

She recalled a conversation that partly seeded a cold war she is in with a dear friend, still dear no doubt. Something about painting her face with things called make up, and doing something about her hair. She was somewhat sick of needing to change into something she was not. It was not fair, because that dear friend was dear to her, just as he was, flaws and all. And she tried hard at that too. Loving people the way they are. Why do they go and refined and process themselves into something they were not, or hide behind paint and straightening tongs? She just found it hard, to constantly live up to standards that did not come naturally. Lip stick fades with every drink, and hair straightened by them tongs crimp and frizz up again with time, unsustainable. And then he spoke of her art, and yes, he was right, sometimes to earn some, we need to conform some, but he accused the very heart of her for being, not good enough. She oft found those girls with bright red lipsticks, and processed hair, grey. She was yellow on the inside, red and blue on the outside, far from grey. To conform, was to turn grey, like the weather. And his wanting to turn her grey angered her a little. She brushed it off, for he was colour blind, but I guess in time, it did seed a cold war. Sadly.

She turned back into the yellow chinaman in white and blue chewing on brown bread and sipping honeyed coffee and smiled. Something the yellow chinaman chewing on brown bread, acquiring tastes for something closer to natural form, simple, warmed her heart. Because it meant, she did not have to try to bend over backwards, slap powder on her face, and pulled those curls straight to please his eyes. To him she was beautiful, the way she is. And she was, because of that, even more so.

swimming in the rain

It was nestled between the two buildings, the pool, and therefore when you swam, the top corner of either buildings would sit at the tip of your vision upon the background of the sky and view of the greens that were planted around the compound. It was just about to rain and she, she wanted to do a few laps before it pours, so she stepped into the pool, right leg first, and then the left until all of her body was immersed in the water she pulled her upper body back to wet her hair before dipping her whole self in. Surprisingly the water was warm, for it was sunny on one end, and cloudy on the other, and so as she began doing her laps, she swam back and forth between the sun and the clouds.

She had always wanted to swim in the rain, and so she swam slowly immersing her head in the water with each stroke until she noticed the raindrops creating small ripples on the surface as she looked up from under. She loved watching the water broke, and that is why the breaststroke was most appealing, apart from being the simplest, it was to her, the most graceful, for when the hands parted the water to make way for the body before the head pulls up to the surface, the water broke its stillness with quietness, and such grace. The same way when the raindrops hit the pool, and broke its still surface into ripples. She knew she should get out now, before the rain got heavy, but it was a sensation she wanted to enjoy for a little longer, swimming towards the sun, and then the clouds and watching the ripples from under the surface before she pushes her head back out. So she swam on.

It was moments like this, she felt at least a little glimmer of hope that life could be bearable. The trouble with her is that she was a romantic deep within. A head filled with stupid ideals, they always tell her. She wasn't really of this world. He once told her that she was a rare treasure, a hard find, and she was, she was out of this world. She does not belong here. It was right there under the water, when she saw the fierce bolt of light rip through the sky. She swam slowly, taking in the feel of the water as it wraps around her, maybe this is how it feels to be flying. She closes her eyes and swam until both sides of the pool turned cloudy and it began to pour. And she stayed underneath the surface for a while, to watch the still surface broken completely by raindrops and breaststroke.

And then it was time, and she got out, walked in the rain back to her apartment and took a long hot shower. Long enough so she could dream a little more before she had to dress, open the door and walk back into the world. The world of broken dreams, and half forced smiles, where horses were cars and princes were just a fairy tale, and where she had to live the best she can, with all she had, until, she went home to where she belonged.

She was not from here.