The death of color

And again it sits like a spectre to be followed, making me remember what it's actually like to live freely in my own brain.
Why should it be so easy to turn off and march like the dead towards whatever easy target has been leaned up before us?
Why is an easy death so frightening?

And it's a love of struggle that I'm after-or at least not any more than the light that's shed there after illuminating quick breath towards desire and a personal growth that was stagnant.
Stagnant.
What a fucking horrifying end; to be bored and complacent.

Wondering about blue eyes looking at you, feeling you tremble and enjoying the time and space where this is who you were.
And ultimately it brings the grey back into focus. Pulls you tight and traces all my secrets back to a source. It's something I call love.
And, if I sit here all slow smiles and quick breath, I might just find my will to fall back in love with myself.
Not like it used to be, but new.
Unknown.
Intoxicating.

Because there's all these facets. Indicators of a life moving forward, enjoying the view just as fast as it can possibly be taken in.
Refraction-just like that.
Cause if I stand still too long I will absolutely forget to breath.
This is a bad death-humiliating even-if you allow inactivity, the very core of nothing to take you in and watch you cease.
Eyes closed because you forgot all about color.
You forgot about watching blue yes catch fire in the middle of the night making you gasp and remember so you sit up and breath.
You breath until it hurts.
Breath until it's real.
Breath till you notice you don't ever want to stop.

It's not done and maybe, if you're lucky, it never ever will be.