Red.

This is a different sort of freewrite. I think it reached a level I don't deliberately access, I thought I'd post it because it is about depression and self loathing. I don't want to go back there. 

Red. Anger. Red mist. Blood. Roses.Red devil. Red arrows. Strawberries. Raspberries. Hips and haws. Autumnal colours. Better red than dead. Communist. Commune. Commune with nature. Life blood. Periods. Red river. Read head. Readlands.

What would happen if we were red not pink. If other races were green not black. If the Chinese were truly yellow. If we were primary colours rather than shades of flesh. Would the primary colours still be dominant? Primary. Orange would be a lesser being at it was mixed colour. Red and Yellow. Would we all end up that sludge brown. Would we have red supremacy? Red Ken. How did Socialist become red? What is the significance. Wars of the Roses. Red rose of Lancashire. White rose of Yorkshire. Purity against blood lust. Vikings. Back to the red mist. Wanting to kill. Wanting to destroy, cleave, hack apart. Knowing that sanity is within reach but choosing not to step back into it. Wanting to hurt. Rip apart. Knowing that you cannot mend it, cannot go back but not caring. The mist isn’t red, it’s black. It’s like a curtain that muffles everything except the beating of the anger. The drum beat that drives you forward, tongue lashing, aiming for the heart to belittle and destroy. To wound and maim. To make you feel as badly as I feel. The blackness the curtain when it closes when it descends muffles all feeling except the need to hurt to lash out then it closes completely and you are locked into the darkness and everything is muffled and there is no point lashing out the only one to hurt is you so you sit wrapped in the curtain of your misery and rip into your own flesh and feelings and tear yourself apart because  you obviously don’t deserve anything better. And you rock. And the voices are distant and you need to drag yourself from the velvet drugged box drag yourself up towards the sound that is disembodied coming from so far away and you drag your self towards it and focus so you can hear then the treacle of your understanding as time is slow and you take what you hear and you turn it round and round in the treacle in the slowness in the slurry until you can see what it was that was said so long ago and so far away and you consider and think is not the right word because think is and active process and the treacle slows that down and you consider what a response might consist of because finding a response is beyond you at the right newness of the moment and finally you find something to say and you find your voice locked down in the more of your being and you drag it up and open your mouth and lip the answer to the question that came so long ago then you let go and sink back down to the waiting place. And you don’t care if there’s a response or a reaction because it’s too far away and too long ago and everything is muffled and if you can’t feel how you feel how can you care how they feel or know if they feel because you know you won’t until the blanket lifts, until the curtain opens until the treacle thins until the light comes in until the sludge of your being finally warms and stirs and slither out towards the warmth and you’re never really depressed because even though you can’t see it and even if you can’t reach it and even if you don’t care if it’s there or not you know that spring will come one day you know at the heart of you that the light still exists that it’s not all darkness so you know you’re not dead even if you want to be so you’re not really depressed you’re just punishing yourself and everyone else. That’ll show them that’ll teach them not to hurt you you’ll just make them do without you for a while and be too frightened to send you back to the dark place.