Fades of lavender

"She wasn't bitter. She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad, the kind of sad that just takes time."

This pops into my head whenever I think of a certain someone,
And it made me conscious of the fact that each and every one of us are trying to recover from something, that we are all lugging around a specific sack of bleeding guts, both latched and unpatched, both the rotting and the fresh, both the sewn and the open that flaps around in the wind.
Each of us has a little sandstorm billowing around on the inside,
And sometimes when we speak, a little of the dust blows itself outwards
In this little spiral that may or may not has gold glitter in it, depending on the cloudiness of the day and the clarity of the heart.

Such people,
Sad people,
Write beautifully.
They utilise metaphors like it actually depicts all that needs to be said but gets trapped inside,
And they mould tears into a restricted funnel that only allows for selected gems to go through.
They understand emotions.
They feel intensely, so much so that a part of them will always be out of shape,
Abstract and consistent in how it morphs between different dimensions and art styles.

Yet it's such a heavy burden to bear when you take them on,
When you smile at them with the best one you can muster
And you try to take their baggage along with yours,
All whilst running to catch up to the plane that never takes flight,
Only to remain on the endless runway, toddling ever, ever, ahead of you.

They bring so much, but they carry loads, too
And it's a give and take situation where their beauty bedazzles you,
But their shape shifting abilities and pots of rare stones scratch and cut you.

Hold onto the reins, you beg.
Crying whilst atop a flying open-air carriage makes your tears turn into streams of speech bubbles, each smaller than the last,
Till it turns into mere twinkles in the dust
And the moon shines,
Just as blue and green and white as that one first night.