There is nothing colder than white.
The vast majority concerns themselves with the natural beauty of
white, the pure innocence of fresh, marble feelings or
fluffy angel wings.
But that is not always white.
White is the piercing scream of panic as you try
to escape expansive hallucination, forever trapped
in an all too familiar place without color,
without clarity,
only blistering, bare wind and sheets upon sheets of irrational,
blank paper.
White is absence of reality, the odd unknown
where one prays to reach Nirvana but always trips into Lost.
Where purity turns stale and bloating clouds just get in the way;
where fingernails scrape the corridors of tiled walls
while snow pounds away at foggy windows.
White is endless,
cold.
There is nothing darker,
nothing more bleak and sullen
than white.