Fade to Black

Blank page. Clean slate. Refreshed and ready to start anew. Don't you just love that about slate? The fact that it can be so easily wiped clean?  Not true by the way, in reality slate is a mother to clean.

I realize the expression, clean slate, refers to more of a writing tablet than a metamorphic rock; however for the purposes of this story, I want to focus on one particular aspect of slate. It is essentially created by layering brilliant color with brilliant color, yet it ends up gray, especially when seen en masse covering roofs.

My identical twins love to paint.  I can see their not so identical personalities each time they present me with a piece of pottery. One is articulate, minimalist, true to her conception - her art reflects her vision in vibrant colors.  The other wants to paint the world with every imaginable color. She can't help herself. It's red, blue, yellow, purple, orange, green, all the colors she loves until the colors mesh and fade to black. Dark gray, at best.  I have a collection of black baskets, ashtrays, pencil holders and the like from her. I love these pieces of art and I will save them for her forever because I get it. I can see the colors within her black.

As I continue to process the startling end of my relationship, I am wondering if maybe we had too many colors or at least one brilliant color mixed with another brilliant color, which was indeed brilliant, right up until they went all the fuck gray. He was red and I was yellow and together we were the ultimate shocking orange. When did all those other colors arrive and splatter the shit out of our orange? What kind of a metamorphosis took place and why wasn't I able to see it? To further pound home the slate metaphor, was it over my head the entire time, or did the transformation really happen overnight when he simply disappeared?  Looking back, I think it was his true colors that eventually splattered our orange.

I am sitting still with a pain that runs so deep, every time I think of him, of what he is doing, how he didn't skip a beat before turning to another woman. I feel black or blue, black and blue, like I've been beaten with a bloody big stick. It's mourning the loss of what I thought I had, before the true colors showed up. My yellow is gone. All of my colors are gone.  And I was as bright as Dinah Shore when she rocked a yellow chiffon number. That's who I was but I am not that anymore.  There is nothing left but darkness and shadows. Darkness can't dance, shadows can't date or make love or even smile. They sit in corners and listen to water, alone and still.

It's been a month now. There is a voice telling me it's time. For life has its seasons, a time and place for everything. A time to weep and a time to laugh. A time to mourn and a time to dance. A time to keep and a time to throw away. A time to tear and a time to mend. I have been torn, ripped to shreds this time around but the time for mending has come. Going through the hurt, sitting still with the season, instead of distracting myself in the arms of another, has brought healing and understanding and most of all, picture perfect clarity. It's as clear as that blank slate, on which I'm about to write a new chapter.

This chapter, I think, will begin with a beautiful sunset. And this time, I will be orange on my own.