black ink, red blood, purple paper
by Charissa Pereira
There’s this empty page staring at me, and it’s asking for all my secrets and I’m starting to get defensive.
The audacity of something so blank and bare, challenging me to fill it.
And not just with anything, it’s asking for the tender thoughts held in the deepest pockets of the innermost layers of my mind that aren’t exactly allowed to ever feel the sunlight.
This blank page is thirsty for blood and my veins aren’t keen to offer.
These little moments and whispers of thoughts I’ve been harboring are still too precious, and too soft.
They’re the color sky blue and all the others are scarlet.
They’re this small, fragile piece of the beginning of a child’s favorite fairy tale growing up.
They look a lot like galaxies and the deep expanse of breaths that sit between them.
And as I write this, as I let the serrated edges of this dark, hungry page slice my finger, and start to draw blood- I’m noticing the paper softening. Thirst is being quenched, and its surface becomes smoother to the touch. Perhaps it isn’t my enemy after all.
It’s impossible to talk accurately about something that isn’t even real yet. There’s no concrete evidence of its story- since the beginning is still being written. So even if I were to share it with you, it would probably sound so ridiculous and wouldn’t be entertaining at all.
It might smell like roses being bent by a crisp fall breeze on park avenue; coming in from the south where the water is. The wind pulls the scent from their petals and spreads it north, and it gathers and comes together with the smell of tulips, chrysanthemums, and maple trees singing along the way.
And you’re there, at the end of its journey, inhaling the blend of nature’s beauty and as it seeps into your mind it creates a new scent memory, one linked to a specific person, idea, or place.
That might be what it smells like.
It might taste like a smooth pinot noir on a balcony at night, with all the constellations illuminating the details of the mountains as the others make smores and burn marshmallows and chocolate together in the starlight.
Yes, that’s what it tastes like.
My pen’s ink starts to bleed black and creates a new purple river as it mixes with the red still pouring out from my heart onto this page. I lighten the pressure of my pen as the quiet piece of paper starts to feel more worn. Its edges smooth to curves.
It might sound like the crunch of salty ocean waves onto a thirsty beach, scorched from the summer sun, in desperate need of refreshment.
Uh-huh. Sounds just like it.
And it looks like long glances and parted lips before the other person even sees you in the room.
It looks like sitting behind a door and waiting for someone to open it.
It looks like them finally opening it.
Yeah, that’s definitely what it looks like.