My days are so unlit,
All I hear is, “You don’t fit”.
I’m losing pace, I’m losing track.
Why is everything turning black?
They’re painting my room again.
With so many strokes.
Which colour is that?
I can’t comprehend.
Oh wait, is it black again?
It’s all so dark yet so pale.
How can this lightless abode blind me?
There’s a pitch-black gloom surrounding my body,
but I don’t understand, how can a colour be so icy?
Everything is blurring now,
It’s all starting to fade.
I’m standing in the eye of the tornado,
And I can see everything merging together,
Into the deepest darkest black more so.
All I can hear is black.
All I can see is black.
All I can feel is black.
What is happening? This hurts.
I want to go back.
I wonder if it’s even a colour anymore.
It almost seems to be alive.
I can see the black reaching out now.
It’s time to fight or die.
So I turn around and run.
I run away from the pitch-black shadow.
But it’s getting closer,
And the way ahead just gets narrower.
Fight, then it is.
So I take out my prism.
I’ve let this blackness consume my colours for far too long.
It’s time for an exorcism.
As I push myself through the silhouette,
The prism starts to shake.
The inky monster is screaming now,
And suddenly the prism breaks.
Everything’s too bright now.
There’s a sparkling canopy underneath the tree.
I pick up the shattered remains of the glass; now a shimmery black.
I breathe the scent of victory, I’m free.
– Megha Bhartiya