I have no idea what this is supposed to be. I just started writing. Apparently, I have an emo child trapped within me, screaming to get out of the cellar that is my rib cage. See, there it is again. OK, I'll stop vacillating now and get to the whatever-this-is.
Blue Monday. Blue like the canvas folding chair that crouches stiffly where a couch should be. Blue like the cerulean paint chips from an old pickup truck, stuck to my back. Blue like the river, blue like the sea
more silver than blue. Shining white and deep brown and green. They say water is blue but they are wrong: it is alive, if "alive" were a color. The color of life
The color of death, the cold clinging wetness. They say water is the most corrosive substance on Earth. All things bend to it, all things decay. The great, colorless constant.
To swim is to dance with death.