White is the Color of Regret

It was taunting me. That white. It was glaring at me, screaming at me. Young, so very young. I don’t feel young at the moment, but I know that later on it will be so. I changed out of white and reached for black, but I stopped, and grabbed red instead. I wasn’t mourning, I was in pain.


Not the physical pain, that was nothing compared to what was going on in my head. At first it was the creeping, worming sort of regret. Now, it was agony; agony for the future hurt I will cause to myself and to the one close to me.


I’m a fool. I’m an idiot. I am still just a child.


I didn’t think that what could cause such pleasure would cause such guilt. Regret for giving so much, and so quickly, to someone who won’t matter years from now.


It was hot. The air conditioner was broken upstairs. I could see the guitars and electric piano in the corner. The carpet was itchy like insulation against my bare skin. What was I thinking? I don’t remember. What was I doing? I don’t remember that either. But I do remember liking it, but loathing it underneath everything else.


I remember being able to see a bit of sky out the window behind me. So blue. So dark. There was a white bird flying in the blue. I watched it until I couldn’t see it anymore, but still I watched it. I watched the bird fly past the roof tops of houses, over trees and towards the sea. There was a red spot on its chest. Was it just a red marking of beauty or a stain of blood?


Why does it continue to occupy my thoughts and haunt my dreams more than any other part of this?