I am released into the world with a pot full of colors.
I don't belong here - I know it.
I have tasks to carry out and I'm ignited by the labor it requires.
I carry in my hands a container of what many call creativity.
It was given to me as a gift - one that I feel utmost responsibility for... almost like gaining a child or caring for an elder. It's precious and it's mine for now.
Some seasons I notice my colorful pot seeming heavier... almost too heavy for me to carry. And when I stand in the midst of the people, I long to share. That's my job! That's what I was told...
I mix the colors in my pot.
I pour out my creativity.
But sometimes they dump trash inside of my bucket. And-- Sometimes they lean their bodies on my shoulder like I am an old, rotted tree. I am left a little tainted.
Don't they know that I'm not from here? I don't know how this works.
Confusion is poured in my pot.
It's mixed with darker shades.
I didn't know that some earth people see colors differently... that not all of them want to see how my colors come alive. They see just a few shades of grey. They smirk easily and carry on with contentment.
So I put my pot full of colors down.
I sit, arms crossed with feet planted on their crackled ground.
I learn logic and politic.
I learn rule and counterfeit.
I learn establishment and disappointment.
I learn repetition and comparison.
I am an anemic pessimist. Scared spiritless.
And soon I forget colors exist.
They live only in dreams.
Dreams are what they call paradise.
Dreams are what they reserve for when the spirit lies.
Dreams are not meant to wake us up.
"Dreams are for rookies"
I listen and receive what they project.
I lost my pot of colors. It was somewhere behind my man-made intellect.
I think I last saw it when they named me "reject".
photos by Porshia Hernandez Photography