Muddled palette
The literature that I’ve read is a motley of hues of life. Give me a palette, and I will pinpoint it on the exact two ends: the light and dark. Lyrical eulogies, a lament to the iridescence of life whispering passed by, whether it is a tribute or a tirade for the bygones. In the dog-eared poetry collections that I once upon a rainy afternoon perused through, there were eulogies full of mythical maidens vanishing under the mist, tributes to the gilded age of fleeting togas under the honey-streaked sun and recalls of the tranquil noons spent under sylph-like tree branches under which Dionysus’ saccharine stream of wine flows past the blood-red hyacinths. There were also torments where the wind thrashes so hard that the glimmer of the candle beside the quilt pen barely flickers, the scribbles scratched in the dinginess of a confined cabin aboard a rocky ship amidst the vast ocean, or the stanzas of exasperation during a murky winter night and with the withering heat of t...