It was green. So, so green. The epitome of earthiness. The Tegalalang Rice Paddies reminded me of green tea and tamarind. Sprinkles of lemongrass and sprouts of Cleopatra’s rose. I stared so long I swear my eyes began to bleed into the sky. Standing out over the edge, I realized this is life. This is what living must be. And I regret that I had not done more of it. It was set behind miles of street markets and bustling cement roads. Watching women sit under ceiling fans and men pick bits of banana from their teeth. I wandered into the most stunning textiles shop. I cannot possibly describe the colors. I was feverish from the amount of colors.
I have always been drawn to color. My eyes love the glamor and glitter, watching rainbow reflections in the rear view mirror of a summer day. I used to collect paint palettes as a kid, flipping through Easter egg pastels and matching the pinks to the flush of my cheeks. Soft corals and sweet lavender. I have always been drawn to the blues, the greens, the purples. Darker colors of mystic. Of dragons and gypsies. Colors of unpredictability and mystery.
I love this time of year. Poetry stirs deep within my bones. Inspiration does not flock with the southern birds, but chirps a sumptuous legato. Bitter tannins seep from fruitful bark even in the embrace of the howling wind. And I remain outdoors just to watch the clouds part for a blood orange moon – a jack-o-lantern sky painted with purple stars and frozen breath.
They look at me unknowingly. A creature of a mythical past. Hair of cinnamon sprinkles and fins of urban legend scales. Windmills of honey and grim reaper tales. I flip over sea shells and breathe with aquamarine lungs. Scarlet eyes and white lights. Magic combs and unknown explorers. They crave curiosity, but fear the unexpected.