No Room For Purple Here

Fall

Every year we know the steady comfort of cool breezes will not last
But we clean our fireplaces and tape our windows shut
Prepare for the worst but anticipate the best
Our apprehension is still lined with optimism
As if we cannot remember pain
Until it cripples us

Anonymity is strangely virtuous
In a world where we are all striving
for memorability,
recognition,
airs of importance.
There lies a special place for feeling entirely undiscovered
Granting the ability to step back and act organically
Unafraid to go against the grain of past selves
They are no longer in existence here
Lurking in the back of memories
Slowly fading away, taking their jails with them

Old souls learning new tricks
Apple pie wafting from a new kitchen
Combining the old with the new is comforting
There is safety in the stained past,
But room for growth in the unforeseeable future

Floating
The way a leaf takes its time
Dancing its final dance
Falling from the tree that grew it,
Onto the ground that will take it away

Encouraging the exploration of individuality,
It is soft.
Something out of a storybook I read as a child
Colliding together like two big waves in the sea,
Leaving the shore peaceful and smooth in the process
Bashfully curious
Like a kitten as it takes its first steps outside
Safety that feels so foreign yet so welcomed
Warm soup for a tortured soul

 

Winter

Soft leaves turn into unforgiving blizzards
Cool breezes turn into biting winds
Wrapped up in blankets
Curled up on couches
Sipping warm drinks to cure cold coughs
Second guessing last year’s guarantee that this, too, shall pass

Bitter words become familiar company
Chills shake away any hope of sleep
Late night exhaustion makes room for doubt
Icicles cut like daggers without a trace

Seeking warmth whenever we can get it
Burning our hands on hot coals
Scalding our tongues on hot tea
Scorching our minds in attempt to carry the warmth in ourselves
Desperately trying to cast away the cruel cold
That crept in to the other room

Jittey like a fly who has only lost 1 wing
There is fear.
Jack Frost rattles at your door like a lost puppy
Leaving you empty when you race to the door in welcoming embrace
And find no one is there waiting for you
Solace found in innocent laughter
Comfort in romance movies with sweet endings
Seeking refuge from the last rollercoaster we eagerly got on
But had to sacrifice part of our souls to get off

Static.
The way a question hangs in the air while waiting to be answered
Grasping ruthlessly, trying to take back the hurt that hasn’t happened yet
It has a way of engulfing periods of time like houses being swept under hurricanes
Perhaps we have learned that calm, too, can be disturbing

 

Spring

Same bed, same room, same body
Yet something is off.
Like silence after bloody screams,
It leaves you thankful but terribly uneasy

Warmth has slowly oozed back in,
Working its way through the plastic you put up
Trying to keep the cold out
And yourself in.
It reminds you of what it feels like to yearn for playtime,
And remember the simplicity
Of basking in the sun
Strange shouts still disrupt calm waters
Strange energy still suffocates the room
Yet you
Remain safe.
Calm.
Home.

Suddenly the whole world opens up.
A clam shell waiting to be warmed,
Bursting open with plentiful pearls.
Transforming us once again into blank pages just waiting to be colored on
Black makes way for gradients of grey
Blue blossoms into navy, turquoise, aquamarine
A rainbow emerges from behind the dark clouds
And thankfully,
there is no room
for purple here

 

Summer

Smothered by the heat
Dripping in sweat but drenched in joy
Diving into cool pools
Seeking relief from unyielding rays
Workloads are light and morale is high
This
Is where the sunshine plays

Little by little things disappear
Eventually the shouts become silence
Good music replaces angry exchanges
Clean laundry fills the house with fresh scents
Clutter disassembles itself like a little boy’s toy soldiers
Lining up to go to bed
Open windows grant light
Treasured friends bring love

Clumsy words falling out of mouths like turpentine
Running, running, running
The way a train plows faithfully through a steep turn
Ignoring its’ fearful passengers
Allowing trust to take the lead
It is not comfortable
But it is not awful, either
There is something magical about blind belief
As if survival is simply an optional byproduct of the experience
Maybe this is why people skydive


Isabella Crum is a first year student at Columbia College Chicago, focusing on creative nonfiction and poetry writing. Much of her work is influenced by the Windy City and the diverse souls she has encountered while living there. In the future, she hopes to travel the world and write about her experiences.

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