Kubla Khan

   It was a blast heavier than a dubstep’s bass, bashed through my being. The whole room jumped up in fright and finally woke me up. My heart thumped so hard until anxiety filled me up. I looked around, from a satisfied-with-life space I had to hit back to reality- the reality of a refugee camp.

   The blast had spilled blood around, the red of it mixed in orangish yellow-what a beautiful color to paint. Orangish yellow? Oh yes, the hue of the flames. Everything was on fire, our tents were made of cloth, remember? That is how refugee camps are, fragile and easy to destroy, just like our hopes.

I was in complete white, my clothes, my skin, the color of my camp, my sheet, my spirit. White is not peace, sometimes it reflects the lack of color, lack of life.

   I woke up and of thought of Kubla Khan, ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan./ A stately pleasure-dome decree’. Where was our Kubla Khan? Where is our Kubla Khan? 

Green Eyes

Green eyes, no, not green eyes. That was some creepy liquid inside that tube that they hit in my eye with an injection. Boom! Right into it. Didn’t even take a second. And I shivered like a hunted fish as the current ran through my body. I saw a white pigeon fly by the serene white clouds. White doesn’t always represent death. It’s all colors, together, like we were until I was diagnosed.

Dark smoke rising through, following the hippie trail, Kathmandu- Base Camp. That’s when I saw that spirit of a person I knew since many infinites before, at least that’s what I thought. You just know it, don’t you, when you see somebody like that?

Head tripping in slow motion as Coldplay plays the classic Yellow. And damn you are back to that sick green shot into your eye, trying to clear out the vibe of the person giving you that shot. And you just die, you don’t even need them to kill you when you see it was the same spirit of a person you thought you knew infinites ago. How sad!