We are in this together

It feels like yesterday when I was lying on the edge of my bed with hands pressing my eyes like it could stop pouring down tears like the tease of the monsoon. On the light of the red, I pictured an unpleasant aesthetics beaming in the back of my hand. Is this what they call art? Crippled body drenched with sorrow basking in the folk music ringing up against the dull, gray walls? Vacant eyes staring into infinite nothingness and seeking a home there? Voices tuned down to a mellow whistle in blank pages? Made up faces camouflaging in unreal tales of the absurd? The classics I read under the mango tree in summer said different. The evenings I spent lying down on the orange creepers said different. The stain of colors left in the hem of my favorite floral dress said different. The fall I wasted collecting leaves said different. The clovers I spent days searching for said different. The walks I took with the sky linings said different. The rainbows I saw through bubbles said different. You see my friend, art is subjective. You have to choose which side you want to be on?

If you too saw those hues of summer, the laughter of children playing and merry chords filling up the gray, then we are in this together.