Colour warms my heart
I was at my favourite bookstore the other day when a woman struck up a conversation with me. Christine, a fervent reader of my Sunday letters, had recognized me. She was curious to know where, when and how I write my famous letters. I write them anywhere and in any fashion, my dear! I am not a professional writer and I have the freedom to simply try and do my best.
The letter starts writing itself in my head most of the time. Often while I’m driving, I write a few words in the palm of my hand. Inspiration can come to me when I’m doing the dishes or, like yesterday, as I was matching up my summer socks fresh out of the dryer.
Inspiration is a sacred angel that knows how to do things well, and I listen to it. I hang on to profound questions that come to mind or I jot down a few lines from a wild dream I remember. My mind wanders and it simply serves as a transmission belt, giving voice to the barely legible scribbling left on my notebooks or in the palm of my hands. I fill up my notepads as I go along. One row in place, one row in reverse, work advances. Most of the time, I feel very lucky not to have a destination or even a dock from which to cast off.
I have the memory of a homing pigeon and the reflex to scrawl everything down in a pocket book. I could have drowned in all the ink I’ve used if it hadn’t already dried up. Even if I no longer insist on staying, I enjoy being here, on the lookout for the glorious banality of everyday life. I am merely a moment of grace in this whirlwind waltz of life.
Christine, the woman at the bookstore, would like to know everything about me. But who am I? I’m still unsure myself. She comments on my raspberry-coloured pants and the small frog broach on my collar. She asks me where my passion for bright colours comes from. “From the rainbow,” I reply. Really! I insist on telling her that I wear light shades in the winter, with a thick turquoise fake fur collar.
I don’t truly care about my appearance. What’s important to me is colour – vibrant colours warm my heart. They’re for the little girl in me who never stopped growing. She insists on looking like the pretty wildflowers from the undergrowth she remembers from her childhood. She still scribbles on the back of the calendar, inventing whimsical stories about a prince and princess in a golden castle.
“I dream in colour, dear Christine! I still dream of finding my great love one day. The man of my dreams that will awaken soon.”
— “So you are still single, Cora?”
— “I have been since the beginning of time.”
Maybe an error was made in the Great Book of Love. Any civil worker can make a blunder or a typo; get an address wrong or forget a name.
Perhaps I am that mistake; an empty line in the ultimate worldly record of beings capable of loving and being loved?
I am a feather, light like hope, but this absence in my heart often weighs me down. And time, this divine undertaker, will it also be slow in coming