Purple is the colour of my memories; it tries to capture decisions, interactions, wishful responses and retorts never uttered.
A mauve Moleskin entombs daydreams, rendered in vivid violet ink, and their secret, dangerous passion. To words seek to fictionalise, for the ease narration and conveyance. I write of a protagonist transforming broken love into vengeful spite. Plans and plots of wrath, against that dangerous, purple person, scrawl and sprawl over the pages of cream.
Real, raw memories juxtapose against the imagined scenarios, and I try to recall the mistakes of a previous decade. Pieces shored to form a clearer view, yet not entirely complete nor focussed. Memories relentlessly our of my grasp.
My thoughts are rendered and hazy in that purple, captured and left unvisited. One day, I will weave the strands to complete the recall of the past.